The Time After Everything (Season 4 AU)
by CescaLR
Summary: The time after everything that happened. After the Nogitsune, after the death and the funerals, the time after that. (what could have been, written by someone who never saw season 4, (though may soon and has heard things) if Stiles had after effects. in short, a Stiles Is Something AU. (All stories have been collapsed into this collection.)(Always Stalia.)
1. You're Not Dead - Not Yet

Stiles honestly isn't surprised when the nightmares don't stop after the nogitsune. When they get worse but better; when they're back to being shitty memories, tragic re-imaginings and what might have been-s. When he doesn't have to scream himself awake but can't wake until they're finished; until his mother breathes her last breath, his father throws the bottle, until Scott's fist, claws out and snarling, or Gerard's, him calm and collected, slams into his face and all goes black for a second. Until the nogitsune does unspeakable things with _his_ hands, _his_ body. When he kills, or – or worse, _tortures_ those he loves and can't stop it happening – _this is just a dream but I can't wake up, I can't I can't – WAKE UP -_

And he doesn't.

So – yeah. It's better, because he's no longer a puppet on strings for a crazy psycho fox, but – but it's worse; it's so much worse. Worse when he does things the nogitsune never talked about; the plans and vague half-thoughts dredged from the back of his mind to the front – the horrors he conjures up, _he_ not the nogitsune. He comes up with the worst ones.

He always has done.

 _Hey, wanna go look for half a body in the woods? That sounds fun!_

It'll get you bitten, but hey. _I'm bored._

Stiles wonders, sometimes, why no-one seems to want to fix his problems. Don't get him wrong, he's grateful people ignore he has them, that they treat him the same (yet different, oh so different. Holy god, when was the last time someone hadn't sent him a wary look they think he won't notice? A minor flinch he shouldn't notice, but can now, for some reason. Too long, too frickin' long ago) as they used to, for the most part.

But – but.

But.

He knows, - _oh, I know –_ he knows he should be grateful. _You're not dead._ Some would say. In return, he'd say, if he were brave enough to upset the careful normality they all seem to be faking these days, he'd say _but I didn't want to be, did I?_ And they'd stare and they'd _stare._

So he doesn't. _But I think it, sometimes. Then I think of Scott, and gasoline and flares and_ _ **pain**_ _, of Lydia and tunnels and 'you'll be screaming', of strings and red and red and_ _ **blue,**_ _think of Alison, of messages and bows and crossbows and ring daggers, of swords and smirks and dead dead_ _ **funeral –**_

 _And scold myself. Scott can't lose anyone else,_ He thinks _. Nor can Lydia, no matter what she thinks._ And scolds himself some more.

 _So all the people left crying at your funeral…_

That's been more real than ever, these last weeks.

So he keeps himself together. Cracks jokes no matter how flat or (in)appropriate, does the research and civilizes Malia and they date because they date – neither of them really care, in that way, all that much but it's hope for the others; they get along and she's attractive, and he's the only one she can stand all that much. Really, in the long run, she uses him for body heat and teachings, copies his habits ( _green yellow_ _ **red red red)**_ and morality with a blunter edge, and he uses her to stay sane, for something to hold onto when he wakes up from stabbing another sword into Scott with the words _you really shouldn't have trusted us Scotty,_ or his mother and _he's trying to kill me_ playing over and over and she doesn't mind the crescent shaped marks in her arms for all of a few seconds.

And she's warm, and he's warm and they keep each other warm.

It's not love, it's nowhere near love, not even close. She's not – she's not been around enough to even vaguely understand it and he knows he doesn't, never has, though he thinks he feels it for Lydia, he thinks he does and she's okay with that because it isn't about love, for them.

Just something to hold on to. So they talk, and he teaches and she listens and – and maybe they drink, sometimes, straight jack and everything because that's all he has and it's on the shelf right there.

It's not healthy coping, he knows that – _it's you stiles, it's all you –_ but it's a case of that being how he knows to cope, how his dad did before him and – and how he does now. He supposes there's a reason for that.

He doesn't spend all night on Wikipedia as Malia sleeps, no he does not.

(Okay, maybe he does. He finds that reason.)

But. But when they wake up, and they turned over in their sleep; him on his back and Malia cuddled up to his side or him spooning her or facing each other, legs a tangled mess and trying to free themselves, laughter and kisses and –

And he thinks, _I could learn to love this._

(He hopes, sometimes, in his sappier, more drunken moments that maybe she could too.)

 _Another day, another maiming death and dismemberment filled nightmare,_ he thinks to himself. _This is not fucked-up at all. Nope._ But it totally is. His grip on Malia's bicep is white-knuckled, she's tense and he feels that pain; can sense it in a way he never used to, and he feels bad that he lingers for a second before letting go as quickly as possible. _No. No, no. No._ She relaxes against him, lets out a breathy sigh and turns over, pecks him on the lips and leaves through the window to where ever she lives these days, to get showered and dressed and ready to go to school.

And, well. She shouldn't really be living – sleeping, rather – here, but she is so that's that. In the end.

He lays there for a minute, torturing himself with the memories of the nightmare, before they fade and he sighs, more growls, but none the less makes some form of noise and gets up, grabs some clothes (t-shirt, hoodie, jeans, the usual. No flannel, not recently. The nogitsune would never have chosen to wear flannel. He puts the hoodie back, violently, and grabs his most horribly offensive flannel shirt he can. _Orange and blue,_ he thinks, for a second, and chuckles to himself, but stops, abruptly, because Stiles doesn't chuckle, _he_ did.), leaves the room and gets ready.

He doesn't eat. He does, however, grab some soda and a bottle of Adderall pills.

Maybe he grabs more than one and takes more than advised, but _god damnit,_ he needs to concentrate. He missed a lot of school, when ill and possessed, and well.

If he wants to graduate (which, contrary to popular opinion, he does) he has to concentrate.

Also? He needs to concentrate, hyper fixate rather than be hyperactive, and Adderall helps that. Helps him be of some use, the weak human be of some use to the supernatural, via research and knowledge and plans. (That. Well. Generally go awry.)

 _Weak,_ a voice thinks, and flashes back to smashing a wooden baseball bat into splinters and sawdust, of throwing Derek across the room. _Weak?_ It thinks, and he replies. _Twice is not a pattern._ Because he's used to voices in his head and doesn't think on the fact that any should be long gone aside from his own.

Then it flashes back to holding the paralysed dead weight of a twenty-five (?) year old alpha (was he alpha at that point? Stiles can't quite remember. It seems so long ago) whilst wearing heavy clothes up from water for two hours straight and he has no reply to that.

He grabs his keys and leaves the house, then slams his fist into the steering wheel in a display of anger-violence he never really used to do all that often but seem to happen randomly now - when the jeep doesn't start.

He's not at all surprised by the fact this starts the car, just puts it into gear and drives to the end of the road, lets in Malia and goes to the school.

For some of the ride they sit in silence, and in typical Malia fashion she gets straight to the point.

(Sometimes, she reminds him of the Hales.)

"What's up with you? I've been quiet, because I've been told what happened and apparently it's not correct, according to society, to pry into people's lives. But you're not how they describe you. So. Tell me." And she stares, expectantly, at him as he keeps his eyes on the road, fingers tapping an unknown to him yet known at the same time rhythm onto his steering wheel. He takes a left, licks and bites at his lip before sighing, flicking his eyes to Malia and adjusting his grip on the wheel. "Nothing really. Just, you know. The usual. Nightmares, random bouts of anger. Excessive use of Adderall. Things that have been happening since forever." She stares at him, in a way others would call blank, but he knows her and calls it searching. He shifts gear and takes a right turn. "Okay." She replies, and turns to gaze out of the windshield. "Tell me when you're ready." Because though he may not have been lying, his heart may not (did not, he knows it didn't) stutter, or raise it's speed, but in a way he was. Lies of omission, he thinks. _Not a lie. But not a truth either. In a way, a deflection._ She's right though. They'll get drunk later, at night when his dad is at work trying to solve another case from the past with a new world view, and he'll confess his secrets and she'll listen, because. Really. He knows she never gets drunk on those nights, knows she lets him not be the responsible one for once. Knows she lets him loosen his tongue with liquor, she opens him up and figures him out then puts him back together again and it works for the most part.

Those days usually start like this anyway.

He shifts the gear and turns off the ignition, and the car sputters and she says "You should really take this to a garage." And she looks at him. "Duct tape only works for so long." And he nods, and she nods and they get out. He moves to where Scott is and she moves to Lydia as per their agreement, and the day moves on as it will do and has done for a week or so.

It's been three weeks and nothing has happened, but only they seem to be trying to fix themselves. Lydia's reverted, gone back to being Queen Bee and he can't blame her, control is something they both require. Scott's dived into lacrosse like it's the only thing keeping him sane and maybe it is, the release and the aggression and him being able to be violent without feeling guilty because it's a violent game. Kira's – well, he doesn't quite know. He only sees her when she's around Scott or Lydia, and then they're all around each other at that point so really. He doesn't know how she copes, spends her time. They're pack, sure, but they don't interact one-on-one enough to be friends.

That morning, he holds back two random bouts of aggression and helps Malia with math. Really, he counts today as a success already, as lately this is how his successful days start out.

Lacrosse is odd, and economics is odd, with a different teacher, with a different coach. He doesn't show up (for the seventh time in a row), even though he should, because he can't stand the reminder of what he did to coach to drag his dad away from the station, of how at that moment he deemed coach's life less worth it than his father's.

It retaliated by trying to get coach killed by the wound, by twisting the arrow but Stiles knew biology. Knew that an injury to the area he got shot in would produce a lot of blood and hurt like hell but not kill, never kill.

So he doesn't show up, and Scott and Lydia don't say anything, and Kira doesn't know or has been told not to say anything because she's giving him weird looks and he leaves, abruptly, because _I forgot, I have to do something guys_ and it's a terrible excuse but they let him go, Lydia's lips pursed but eyes worried, Scott with that kicked puppy look that always makes Stiles feel like shit, and Malia with that searching stare of hers that in times like this makes him feel uncomfortable. Kira is confused but lets it go as the others do, and it's such a pack mentality right now that he needs some air to breathe.

He may be pack, but he is human and he knows that that makes it different. For one, Scott can flash his eyes all he likes but that would never make him cower or back down. (Not that Scott would. He's _Scott._ But still.) For another, he doesn't know Kira, they aren't friends, and he really is not a fan of her mother even though he's never really met her (but he dreams, and remembers memories he's never had and he does, he has met her he knows her, intimately, and yet he doesn't and it's really, really fucking _weird._ )

He avoids Kira more for the reason she looks so much like Noshiko – like _Mrs. Yukimura,_ that it's confusing and weird and he doesn't even know the woman. The woman's daughter. The woman. Neither.

Well. The _Foxes,_ he should yet shouldn't say.

So he avoids. It's simple, Occam's razor and easy enough seeing as they're not really friends, as the most she really knows of him is ill or possessed, of swords and Scott and wrists and black-out knock-outs.

And, really, if Scott bothered to notice she was avoiding Stiles just as much, all wary glances and half-assed excuses Scott buys because he's Scott and he trusts everyone.

Except for when he doesn't, when he double-crosses people and gives them mountain ash tablets and expects, _plans_ for them to die –

And says that they can't kill people. That they can't become those that they're trying to defeat.

(In a weird way, it's _Scott_ who's the master of working with the enemy. Of double-standards and double-crossings.

Stiles is the master of working behind people's backs.)

He doesn't stay that afternoon, signs out at the entrance and the old lady smiles sadly at him and nods, because _of course_ she was told he could do this and the reasons why, and he leaves the school and gets in the jeep, and waits and waits.

Not a minute later Malia arrives, and calmly, quietly gets in the passenger side.

He looks at her, his eyes questioning, and she replies, straightforward. "Paid a freshman to pull the fire alarm, and escaped in the chaos." And he smiles, slightly, as he remembers teaching her that.

( _What?_ It's practically mandatory, to know how to get out of school in their line of work. He can't help if she uses that information, that knowledge, when there isn't an emergency.)

He nods, and reverses out of the parking spot and drives off ever so slightly above allowed speed, so that Malia isn't caught skipping school.

She smiles softly, and he figures she saw that gesture for what it was.

(They'd have been fine for a while, considering the fact an alarm had been pulled. He didn't need to risk a speeding ticket. Not that he'd get one, but still.)

He elects to use the back roads, to drive around for a bit before going home, and he focuses on driving while she gathers her thoughts into coherent questions.

When she looks ready, he starts in the direction of home, making a u-turn in a no u-turn area, and she looks amused.

(This is why he isn't teaching her to drive. Lydia teaches her lawful driving, and he'll be teaching her after she gets her permit.)

"If you weren't the sheriff's kid, you'd get in trouble for that." She states, barely-there amusement colouring her words in a way only a few can hear. (Lydia, herself, and him. Obviously. Kira, maybe but again. He wouldn't know.)

"But I am." He pointed out, and then stopped at the red light, changing gears. "So. There's that. Useful, really." And she nods, gazing out of the window at the streets passing by.

He taps out that same rhythm as before, the one he knows yet doesn't, on the steering wheel. He stills his hand and changes gear, making a sharp, most likely illegal turn onto his home's lane.

Again, she looks faintly amused. He cracks a small smile, and she does as well. He reaches out a hand to change the gear to reverse, and parks the car.

He waits. She covers his hand with hers and squeezes, and gets out of the car. She gestures vaguely, (he needs to teach her more of those, he reflects), and jerks her head in the direction of the house. "You coming? Jack's not going to drink itself, you know." And he does, he gets out of the jeep and locks it, and enters the house and locks it too. Malia had the Jack out and the glasses before he'd locked the door, and she was staring at him, immobile in the doorway. "You alright?" she questioned, a slight difference in her tone that he knew to be her version of softness, and he nods, vaguely, and meanders over to the couch, hands clasped between his legs and bent over, left foot tapping that same rhythm, staring at nothing and everything.

She hands him the jack, her own glass full, and he takes it, takes a swig before filling his own glass and putting the bottle down.

He passes the glass between his hand and drinks from it, where as she sips her and stays oddly still.

She looks thoughtful, and he stares at her out of the corner of his eye.

"What are your nightmares about?" she questions, and he lets out a breath, harsh and loud in the silence of the house.

He finishes his glass in the next gulp, and forgoes the use of it, grabbing the jack and thinking _fuck it,_ taking a swig and hoping he'd get drunk enough not to remember this conversation in the morning.

Gently, she takes the bottle and fills his glass, putting the Jack down on her side of the coffee table.

 _Smart girl,_ he thinks fondly.

He drinks from his glass, and she lets him stall.

"Many things." He replies, finally, and she snorts in derivation. "Obviously." Her tone is flat, and he flinches. She sighs, and murmurs, "Just tell me, Stiles, it's only fair" and okay, yeah, she's right there. She's told him things, Malia's shared her fears and horrors and secrets and terrors, and so yeah. He should as well.

He takes another drink, and puts down the empty glass, and she refills it half way.

In silent decision, they move closer, knees touching and hands clasped, and he looks at her, finally.

He licks his lips, and continues. "What… what's happened so far. What hasn't, but might've. What I – What _he, it_ did, when in me. What we – I – _it_ could have done, if we – us, the pack – had let it. Things that – that happened before me, to its previous hosts, but mostly the one prior to me. What-could-have-beens and what-weres. Violent, dark fantasies, and memories and – and warped memories. Visits to the time I was possessed, and when I wake up from those I have to count fingers. Sometimes, when I wake up, I wonder why I'm not in the camp anymore, and then it all comes flooding back and I just want to scream. Sometimes, I wake up thinking in _we,_ in _us,_ in plural and I feel like throwing up. Sometimes, I, we because there's something, someone else there that shouldn't be but isn't doing any harm, not really, we visit things that have happened in the past, things that I've done that don't seem quite possible for a normal human. But –" and here he laughed, a little hysterical – "But I'm not exactly normal, am I? Really, I mean, even my name isn't exactly average."

And he stopped, and reached for his glass and finished it in one.

She held out the Jack bottle and he held out the glass, watched as she filled it to the top, and this time he savoured it, observing her as she refiled her own glass, and he wondered how many she'd had.

He had had quite a few, he thought, he must have, but he didn't even feel tipsy yet.

(The Jack was empty now, the bottle tossed carelessly aside and neither of them as drunk as they'd like. Which was to say, neither of them were drunk at all.)

She lowered her glass, half full, and he lowered his, almost empty, and levelled her gaze onto him. "And the anger?" she questioned, her voice calm in that way he knew meant she wasn't calm, but he ignored it and saw in her eyes the gratefulness at that decision.

"Yeah." He said finally. "Anger. Random impulses to hit and or break things. Random impulses to retaliate against the smallest of things with dangerous 'pranks'" he air-quoted the word pranks, and her lips quirked upwards. "Like cutting the breaks on their cars or setting up arrow traps." He paused, licked his lips then chewed at his top one, and looked away, sighed and continued. She put her hand on his arm and he looked back at her. "And random impulses to impale people with deadly weapons. To feed off their pain even though I _can't,_ I really, really, _can't_ do that." And he didn't finish that sentence with _anymore_ because he wasn't the one with that ability. At least he figured he wasn't. It's not like he was about to ask Scott if his eyes had gone white whilst he stole the pain from him and stabbed him with a sword. Yeah, uh. No. That would be a tremendously bad idea. So, until then. No. It was the nogitsune. It _had_ to be.

She nodded, and didn't bring up the mornings where he lingered his hand on her arm, and his eyes conveyed his gratefulness.

He put down his glass, empty, and she put down hers not long after.

Their questions were done, for now, and they had the rest of the day left.

Her lips quirked into a smile.

"Wanna practice Lacrosse? You'll need to, at least, considering."

And he nodded, because yeah. Avoiding practice is all well and good until coach arrives back and yells at him and he has to control the urge to hurt the man he had already impaled with an arrow.(which he felt. Feels. Feels so, _so_ bad about.)

She held out her hand and he took it, and she dragged him up to his room to get his equipment, and he thinks, _I could get used to this._

They go outside, and he practises throwing lacrosse balls, and she catches every single one and they laugh, and for a time, to those who don't know them, they'd seem like normal, happy teenagers.

Who didn't just get not-drunk on a couch talking about impulses to murder people.

( _Yeah._ He thinks. _That's a little messed up.)_


	2. Pain Taken, Relief Given

**A/N: Heyo! Massive A/N at the bottom. Please read, it talks about some stuff to do with this story and why it seems to end so abruptly.**

* * *

Stiles knew the days after the funerals ( _oh god Alison, Alison, I'm so, so_ _ **sorry**_ _)_ would be pretty much the same as those before, but with more pretending to be okay and reverting to past selves as if that would help matters.

He knew, he knew that.

( ** _He_** _laughed, darkly. "Oh, I know…")_

And, as most times, Stiles was right. For the most part.

Scott was… well, _Scott,_ but apparently now he was a lot more aggressive when it came to Lacrosse.

Which. Well. Made sense, after all – lacrosse is a violent game.

(What with werewolves and people who definitely aren't teenagers and death death _death_ on the field.)

But Stiles was wrong about something. Something, that lately, he came to know he'd often be wrong about.

Himself.

("I'm fine", he'd repeat, over and over and over to Malia, and she'd know the meaning is "I'm really, really _not.")_

 _Emotions_ , he reflected, nursing a glass of Jack, the bottle on the coffee table and Malia sprawled out on the couch, _Emotions are stupid._

Malia felt like the warmth of happiness, the fog of inebriation, the sparks of attraction (to him, he thinks, and grins), like the burning, simmering fire of always-there anger and the turbulent winds of a storm of chaotic thoughts. This is what she often feels like, these days, minus the fog and the warmth.

She's colder than him, and that's saying something. Even more is said by the fact she thinks he's _warm._

"I'm never, e-ever warm, Mal… Mal-li… Mal-i-a" He says, drunkenly, and she looks at him confusedly, giggles, and rolls over, _thud, thud thud_ , onto the floor. "I'm drunk" She says, louder than necessary, yet clearly, and he nods, the room swimming. "We. We both are." He grins, she grins, and a two-person chorus of "Yeah!" goes round the mostly empty house. He fist-bumps the air, and she laughs, and he laughs and they don't stop laughing.

 _It's not funny,_ he thinks, muses, _but our lives are ridiculous._

 _What harm is there in a little laughter?_

( _A lot,_ his memories (?) reply, flashes of cruel laughter and not-so-funny pranks and 'tricks'. _A Lot._ )

He stops laughing.

Malia's passed out on the floor now but she won't be for long, and he wonders where that supernatural tolerance to getting drunk is, because apparently it left her behind at the bus stop.

(What even is that metaphor? He smacks himself mentally.)

He puts down the glass and picks up the bottle, because the only time he goes back to drinking straight from it is when Malia isn't around (or aware) enough to limit his intake.

He takes a swig, and settles on the massive hangover he'll have in the morning.

* * *

He didn't have a hangover.

In fact, it's almost like he hadn't drunk at all, he felt more refreshed than he had in a long time.

More awake now, he noticed his hand on Malia's leg and the black, black _veins,_ in his hands and his arms and he yanks it back, and she jerks awake from what seemed a peaceful slumber.

"Wha…?" She groans, then complains, "Crap, hangover." And buries her face in the carpet. He contemplates chuckling, but decides against it, echoes of maniacal laugher ringing in his ears.

"I'll get the water," Because pills don't work so great on Malia, they don't do much of anything and he's alright with that because it means she can't be drugged.

She nods, and murmus "Thanks" into the flesh of her arms, under a whisper, and it wasn't that long ago he'd 've had to ask her _what did you say?_

Now, he just nods and goes to the kitchen to get her a drink. Of water. More alcohol would be stupid.

(For a second he contemplates mixing in some vodka as he runs the tap and the water goes into the cup. He's half moved to the cupboard before he realises what he's doing.

This time, he doesn't just smack himself mentally.)

Stiles goes back to Malia and gives her the cup. The meaningful way she looks at him and brushes her hand on the bare skin of his arm (he must have taken his hoodie off at some point. (He needs more long-sleved t-shirts.)), and for a second veins show, stark black but gone in an instant, the way she smiles softly and says "Thanks," in a low, quiet voice that betrays none of the feelings he can tell she bottles up inside, the ones she hates and for a while he sometimes takes on accident when sleeping. The meaningful way she does that makes him feel uncomfortable because this power of his, well, it isn't his, it belongs to some evil creature that apparently got off on the feeling of other people's pain. Took power and took pleasure in it, _fed_ off of it.

He grimaces at the memories that come up, gives her a fake smile - the one he's perfected, the one that looks like his old one but changed just enough so that it looks genuine - doesn't fool her but it makes her back off, as it always does.

(Sometimes, they treat each other the way they hate - like broken glass. From her though, it isn't as aggravating.)

* * *

Stiles had managed to avoid alone-time with Scott for a few weeks, managed to always have someone else there, usually Malia, to drag him (Stiles) away, or Malia bribes kira and gets her to drag Scott off for something, or Lydia's there so that means everyone's there, so it doesn't matter if he's in the same room as Scott, since he's not gonna try to talk with so many witnesses.

But.

Stiles has shit luck, as he's bemoaned many a time, so. Really.

it was only a matter of time before it ran out on him.

(Again, his luck is the legitimate worst. Not only is he alone with Scott but he's not wearing anything with long sleves. One point of contact on one arm, below the end of his T-shirt sleve and bam! Game's over.)

(He really wishes he could control this stupid leeching ability right now. God damn it.)

Scott sits quiet in the passenger seat, an almost-blank look on his face showing his thinking.

 _Just perfect._

Scott nods to himself once, twice, and speaks. "You okay?" He asks, as if this hasn't been asked so many times that it's lost all meaning. In fact, it's so often asks that it is literally ingrained in him to reply "I'm fine," on beat and in the right tone (one of slight exasperation and annoyance.) Scott exhales forcefully, and blinks out at the scenery. "How are you and Malia?" He asks, testing the waters in a way that's painfuly obvious.

 _God, when did it get so bad that we can't even talk to each other?_

 _Oh wait. I know the answer. It's Scott who doesn't._

"We're fine." and _that's great. Be monosyllabic, that's a surefire way to fix a relationship that isn't working because of lack of communication._

He nods and there's silence in the jeep once more. Stiles is overcome with a pointless wave of agression, and with some effort he manages to stop himself from hitting the steering wheel in frustration.

His hand twitches, as if to move, and Stiles knows there's no way in hell Scott didn't just get a noseful of anger, or see the way his hand basically spasmed. (Okay, so it was a little more than a 'twitch'.)

Scott opens his mouth as if to - cautiously of course, we can't set off the ticking time bomb - ask him, for the umpteenth time, _are you okay, Stiles, are you alright?_ and he can't stop himself from banging his hand into the steering wheel. Scott jumps as the car sputters and dies, and, cursing, stiles barges out of the car and gets the wrenches and duct tape rolls to go try to fix it. After a few seconds the angry wave comes back, and this time he doesn't supress it for later. "Fucking - god damn - This stupid _jeep!_ " He yells, and angrily chucks the box of wrenches as far as he can throw them. (They disappear far off into the trees and Scott looks a little shocked at that. Or was it the outburst in general? Stiles is too far into not-giving-a-shit-because-that-leads-to-anger territory right now that he can't tell.(He's over his outburst.)) Panting, Stiles slid down the side of the jeep to the floor, and pats the car's tire. "Sorry Roscoe." He murmurs, worn out.

"Dude." Scott says, and the worry Stiles can feel pouring off of him in waves despite the fact he's not a) drunk, which seems to wake up any empathetic powers he has, or b) touching him, either through clothes or bare skin, both hurts and brings back up dredges of anger, soft and simmering, yet harsh and fresh. "What?" and he knows his tone is irratable, knows Scott can scent emotions so knows he can feel the turbulent storm within him right now and knows Scott's gonna dive right in anyway.

Because Scott's - well. _Scott._

Scott sits, cross-legged, on the ground in from of him, his eyes searching and concerned. Unconciously, Stiles at least hopes it was, Scott's eyes flash red and rather than submitting, rather than being the human beta whatever he is just _has_ to have a problem with that, just has to make things worse and more awkward. Instead, he glares, and hopes beyond hope his eyes never flash colours other than the one they always are (whiskey brown, when lght is shone in them, Malia murmured once, and. Wow. Okay, that's just great. Stilinski's just can't get away from alcohol, can they? But normally, they're brown, and, at times, can look as black as the marks on his soul and the darkness around his heart.).

For a second, Stiles can feel Scott's surprise, the almost-hurt-ness echoing in the empty air. (He feel's the _Wolf's_ \- and he's surprised his mind almost sneers that word - the Alpha's hurt-anger, the true alpha wondering why his second in command is - well. No longer his second in command.)

Guilt screaming in his ears, buzzing and nauseous, he bites his top lip and looks away, sighing, and moves to fix the jeep.

 _Duct tape won't work forever. And I can't be the only one to fix this._

 _Something had to give eventually._ (Right now, he's not even sure if he's still thinking of the jeep.)

Scott's back after a minute, box of wrenches in hand and a blank expression as he hands them over. Stiles sighs, takes the wrenches, and looks at him.

His fingers tap a not-so-unfamiliar rythm on the jeep, and he puts the box down.

(Scott looks warily at his fingers, and they still. He picks up a wrench because he's nervous and has nervous energy and can't just do nothing.)

Scott isn't sure of how to proceed. Neither is he, but it can't hurt to try to fix this.

"So. I guess there are things we haven't told each other. Me, more than you."

"Yeah, Stiles. Seems so."

Stiles grimaces, tightens something with the wrench and breaks off some duct tape and wraps it round that something, hoping this at least does _something_ to help it run smoothly.

(Really, he has no idea what he's doing.)

"I just. Sometimes, I feel a little... angry. For - no reason. Really, it just... happens."

Scott nods, and leans against the jeep. He spots a weak point, and Stiles patches it up.

"I - uh. There was an... accident. Last night."

"Yeah?" Stiles stops, the waves of guilt, worry and almost-fear coming off of his friend leaving a tangy, bitter taste in his mouth and the feeling of sick in the back of his throat. He stills his hand mid-turn, and tilts his head up to Scott's.

(The Sun is setting, and Stiles' face is cast into shadow by the jeep's hood, where as Scott is still illuminated. Somehow, it's fitting. At least, to Stiles. Though, he's not really sure what it signifies or why he noticed it. It just feels important, somehow.)

"We were - There was this kid, this freshman, right, and - and there was this werewolf from outta town, see, and- and -"

"Woah, woah, Scotty. Slow down, calm down, no rush. Explain, don't work yourself up." Stiles had half moved to place a comforting hand on his shoulder but thought better of it in the last second. Instead, he made the motion seem as if he was reaching for the duct tape, and grabbed some and stuck it in a random place that looked like it needed it.

The wrench lay forgotten in the workings of the car, forgotten because right now there was something more important than fixing the jeep.

There always is. It's why it's gotten so bad.

Scott nods, and continues, slower this time. "So. The kid, he was being chased by the rabid werewolf, right? Because I was trying to lure it away from civilisation but the guy was out on a walk, for some reason, and - and so when he saw the other wolf - he, ran, right? - really well, actually, he's probably on the track team or something - he ran and got chased to the car park, okay? And he ran up to the roof, and he was backed up to the edge but didn't notice and there was a fight, right? but - but I don't really remember, but I bit him, I know that I did and so - so we kinda maybe kidnapped him a little bit? Maybe? and he's up in derek's loft with Lydia and Kira and everyone. And. Uh. Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me when it happend, huh?"

"I was gonna. But - it got out of hand, and we delt with it, and -"

"And you forgot that since you made your own beta, your wolf classes that as it's second in command now, rather than me, the human. Because the wolf wants a pack of supernaturals, not just people who _know of_ the supernatural. S'not your fault, Scotty, really. Jus' nature, and stupid werewolf shit. So who's the kid, anyway, and is this gonna end with another visit to my dad's work place? or are we gonna not deal with another Jackson incident and get thrown into jail or another restraining order, or whatever?"

Scott grimaced. "I was hoping you'd have some ideas."

Stiles nodded. "Yeah, sure, just tell me who the kid is and I'll tell my dad that you and your alpha self accidentally bit him, and now you're trying to figure out how to break all this to him, so my dad can stall. Right? 'Cause thats what I got, Scott. Sound like a plan?"

Scott groaned and put his head in his hands. "I messed up, didn' I?"

"Yeah, Scotty. Just a lil' bit." Stiles put the hood down and patted the car, and it instantly roared back to life. Stiles stumbled backwards and Scott jumped about a half a meter in the air, surprise written clearly on his face. For a second, they just stood there, then started laughing and it was as if there hadn't been a huge rift betewwn them for three weeks.

They weren't gonna break just yet. They have some mileage left.

* * *

Liam Dunbar has anger issues, and this was the most annoying mistake to have been made. Not angering, not life thereatening, but definitely annoying. Stiles and Malia glared at Scott who winced in apology, whilst Lydia and Kira tried to talk the guy down from his anger-high.

 _Fuck, this is our life. Jesus._

( _God, if I could just control what ever it is I can do, and if it wouldn't be pack suicide to tell anyone except Malia, then this would be so, so much easier.)_

"Oh my god." Stiles muttered, turned round and grabbed the syringe off of the table (deaton had reccomended it, just in case.), went over to the strggling, yelling, roaring, snapping, shaking liam and jabbed him in the arm. It took all of a minute for him to be knocked out cold. He yanked the syringe out of the kid's arm, and went and flopped onto the couch, massaging the sides of his head.

God damn it, panic from others gives him headaches. Apparently.

Malia, unfazed as ever, sat down next to him, and rubbed his shoulder as a gesture of comfort.

She glared at Liam, as if he'd done something to offend her personally, and the others just stared at Stiles.

"Well, that's one way to calm him down." Lydia said, vauge amusmemt colouring her tone, but in truth he could tell it greatly amused her. The most amusing part, he could tell, was Scott's bafflement at his actions.

 _Oh great. Now I can feel reasons behind emotions. Wonderful._

 _"What?"_ Malia said, and there was warning in her tone. Scott's jaw snapped shut with a click, and Stiles couldn't stop the minor flinch he knew the weres could detect.

"At least he isn't a danger to himself now" Kira pointed out with her usual level of optimism, and he suddenly felt bad for ever being rude to her, ever.

 _(Thank you, little fox.)_

 _Thanks, Kira._

* * *

"So, let's go over this. I - I'm a _werewolf_." Liam stated, a questioning tone to his voice.

 _Oh my god. Seriously?_

Stiles rolled his eyes.

" _Yes,_ you little runt. You're a werewolf. Scott's your Alpha. Lydia's a banshee. Kira's a-"

"Fox spirit. Right?" He interrupted, confident then unsure. Kira shrugged. "Fox works." "Kitsune's the term though," Lydia pointed out. "Don't want him to offend anybeing." Stiles nodded. "Right?" He agreed, the question rhetorical. "Anyway, Kira; kitsune. The Argents; Mostly hunters though I suppose some could have abstained from the family business. Hale's are generally werewolves, though I suppose there could be other weres in the family, and I know for a fact that there were humans before the main, Hale Pack, strain was wiped out by Kate Argent. So that's Derek, Cora, and Peter Hale, so far as we know. Malia here's a werecoyote, and yeah, that seems 'bout it."

 _don't notice. Come on, kid, don't let me down._

"What're you?" He asked, a bit confused. Colours swam in Stiles' head and he blinked a few times. "Me? Well, for a while I was possessed by this evil spirit. It was very evil." That's all he really needs to know about that. "What about now?" he questioned further, a curious gleam in his eyes and pouring off of him in waves.

It made Stiles' skin itch, and he started tapping the rhythm he doesn't know on his leg. Malia discretely grabbed his arm and stilled his movement.

(Lydia was watching from the corner of her eye. The wariness felt like storm clouds, and that stopped him more effectively than anything. But, apparently, that stillness just made people worry more, be more wary - and what was he supposed to do? The manerisms of the Nogitsune when in him when around them were his - so anything he does would make them wary, if unintentionally on their part.)

"...better?..."

 _God damn it I need a mouth filter._

Scott glanced at Stiles, and so did the others, but Liam either didn't notice or politely ignored it (Bets on the first one.), and nodded in acceptance.

"Right. So, I have to keep this secret?"

Stiles spoke before anyone else could, and two people looked a bit annoyed. "IF you think it's right to. Some things are better out in the open, but if you think someone would be happier not knowing then don't tell them unless absolutely necessary." "However, I think you should tell your closest friend, and your parents, or parent." Lydia put in, butting in before Scott could get a word in edgewise.

 _(He looks_ ** _so_** _annoyed right now it's hilarious.)_

 _Probably should let him talk._

"But really, in the end it's your alpha's decision. First thing Derek should have told us, but really didn't - packs aren't democracies. They're dictatorships. What the Alpha says, goes, and that's why they have in-pack advisors. Sounding boards, really. Anyway, what I'm saying is that it ultimately is up to Scott if you say anything...""or don't," Malia finished.

All eyes were on Scott, and he opened his mouth, paused, and then spoke. "I think it should be up to you. I don't know the people you know, don't know how they'd react to the supernatural. Some people just can't handle it, and some can. Those that can't, they can go... bad. Or, alternatively, they can just... just - Go."

Stiles could sense the capital 'Go', could sense the meaning of _they could, and probably would, die._

Liam visibly swallowed, and made one of the strangest facial expressions Stiles had ever seen, before returning to a normal facial expression and nodding. "I have someone in mind, but I'm not - not gonna tell my stepdad. At least, not yet." And they nodded, they all nodded, and Stiles was hit with a burst of _pack mentality, ugh,_ and his head jerked to a stop, against his own will. Malia's grip tightened, her knuckles white but his skin unmarked and no pain felt from it. Scott noticed Malia's grip, and noticed Stiles' lack of pain, and filed it away for later. As did Lydia.

"So... Can I leave?" Scott rapidly shook his head, and Stiles looked at him, wide-eyed. "Oh my god no that's a terrible idea. You don't have control yet, full moon's tomorrow, you have anger issues, you won't be in control of your own actions - do you _want_ to go to town on your family members?!" and yeah, he was rambling, and panicking, and maybe projecting a little, and no that was not why the lights flickered. Kira winced, apologetically, and then looked confused, as she knew there was no reason for her to have done that and besides, so far, she's needed to touch something for anything to happen and it was never consistent. (It was why the lights flickered.). She remembered something her mother told her, and flicked her eyes over to Stiles, unnoticed by Scott, Malia and Stiles, but not Lydia.

Liam stared at Stiles, wide eyed, and Scott reached out to him, and led him aside, murmuring quietly.

Malia dragged Stiles over to the couch by the arm, and sat them down together. Stiles could see Lydia move to Kira and start talking.

He blocked it out.

Malia moved her hand from his sleve covered forearm to his wrist and finally to his hand, and almost immediately thick, black veins spread from the places where they were touching up his arm hidden by his sleve. He yanked his arm away, eyes wide like _are you trying to get this noticed?_ and she frowned at him, grabbed his arm and dragged him into a dark corner. she hissed, under her breath quiet words, simmering angry frustrated annoyance directed at him like little knives, travelling from her hand up his arm through his sleve like pins and needles. "You need it, okay? It doesn't matter to me where it came from, or anything like that and I never say anything _because it doesn't matter._ So what if some other being has this ability? Who cares! I want rid of some weird feeling things that make me _weak,"_ and that last word was practically spit out like it was some sort of curse word "and hey, if those feelings make you look less like you're dying, I _want_ to give them to you. You're physical and mental state depends on it, okay? This morning - I've never seen you so healthy looking. it lasted nearly a day - it's like, what, eleven at night now? - and now you look terrible again. You look like you're in pain and we can't have scott or anyone try to take that from you because - newsflash - _that'd_ be what leads them to finding out. It's suspicious enough that you suddenly have to change seats when ever someone tries to touch you, or when you don't have anything longsleved and you stand as far away from everyone as is socially acceptable. Just _let me help,_ okay? I can't do what Scott can do, I can't take pain away but I have enough to _give,_ so just fucking _let me give it,_ god damn it Stiles!" He quickly covered her mouth and looked around, checking to see if anyone heard her outburst. "That's very nice of you but could this have waited?" he asked, slight annoyance mostly fear colouring his tone. "Seriously, beings with super-hearing are in the room with us!" She deflated, and nodded, but her eyes were burning, cold and he felt it, and it made him shiver. He licked his lips and removed his hand, slowly, and stepped back. "Sorry", he apologised quietly. "Sorry."

She nodded, and walked back to the main are. He jerked his head and pulled a face of self-aimed anger, rubbed a hand over his mouth and waited for a minute to calm down.

He grimaced and followed after her.

* * *

 _Detached images - thoughts - feelings - black hair, red lips, **beauty -** orders, regulations **sometimes he always hates his job -** riddles, riddles, what does everyone have that no-one can loose, **Noshiko? -**_

Stiles jolted awake, confused.

 _Where, the camp, this isn't -_

 ** _Oh god._**

"Not again..." he muttered, angry at himself and the nogitsune, at Rhys and Noshiko and everyone and everything. Malia rolled over and cuddled up to his bare arm in her sleep, the frown she wore melting away as the veins spread up his arm.

 _Well. Maybe not_ _everyone._

He moves his arm almost instinctively, (the free one, obviously) and places it on her bare forearm, the veins spreading up this arm and a small smile spreading across her face in her sleep.

He buries his head in her hair, breathes in her scent and tries to get some rest.

* * *

A/N: it was not supposed to finish here; in fact, I had an _entire freaking section of Nokisho and Stiles interaction before I fucked up and it deleted. Oh my god._

 **So, as you can probably guess, I cannot be bothered to write another thousand-ish words again, because they won't turn out the same and that will annoy me to no end. So, even if it seems abrupt I'm going to finish here. So, you probably notice that this is kind of similar to the other oneshot, and that's because it's set in the same universe. Kinda. it's a vague universe with no real plot at the moment - these oneshots are more 'in the life of Stalia' in this AU at the moment, really, but I'm hoping that will evolve - you can probably tell that it's gonna come soon-ish, and hopefully will be multi-chaptered.**

 **So, the next one will probably be a new version of the Noshiko and Stiles interaction. Yeahhh. Ugh. This is the worst.**

 **(Also? Lost a bunch of edits to the flow and rest of the story = I had to change a chunk of the phrasing, and it took me forever and I'm not doing it again. Not today at least. Maybe I'll fix it later, but let's be honest. Pro'lly not gonna. )**

 **And then conflict wise, I suppose we've got some season four shit mulling around - what with liam. But I haven't actually watched that season yet, soooooo-**

 **The way he gets turned is probably totally off from canon, but heh. Oh well. Also, the facial expression thing. I've seen some kind of hilarious screen caps that capture the character at times of hilarious facial expressions. so yeah. I've incorporated that.**

 **Um, I'm not too happy with the stiles-voice I've got going here. does anyone else get that not-quite-stiles vibe? I dunno, I just - do I write him Okay? He's a bit off, because he is in the AU, but his personality is the same as show-stiles. Just with powers an' shit. (more than the weird spark thing (which i'm incorporating) and the random bouts of extra strength (it is nigh on impossible to shatter a wooden baseball bat into splinters and sawdust. I've googled it. Same with holding some dead weight human, older and bigger, whilst both are fully clothed, above water. It's a depressingly short amound of time, and definitely less than _two freakin' hours.)_ ).**

 **So i'm hoping no-ones' too OOC. That would be the worst. less 'the worst' than the whole lost a bunch of the chapter worst, but still. the worst.**

 **I think that's it.**

 **Tarah.**

 **\- Cesca.**


	3. Thoughts - Scott, on his pack, After

Scott's worried about his pack.

Which, well, isn't exactly new, but the feeling's stronger than usual, and he tends to trust his feelings.

(Most of the time.)

He's worried about Lydia, who's regressed to the girl he remembers her being; the Queen Bee, the Hot Girl, the manipulative, in control (in a way) girl he remembers from when he was first bitten.

(Back when Allison was alive. Back when full moons affected him easily, and she did things solely based on being in power.)

Though, at least she's still a little nicer than she was back then. She treats her friends and acts as normal as possible. But mention certain things, and she'll freeze: the name Allison, the words Oak Creek, Peter Hale, Jackson Whittemore, _Banshee._

 _Death._

So, well, he treats her like glass; easily breakable, easy to shatter into itty bitty pieces.

Kira's the least affected by what has happened, but she still is. More than anything, she follows their lead, does what they say and goes with the flow.

Liam's new, fresh-faced and eager.

Well. Eager to _punch_ things. (His meds aren't working too well now he's a werewolf, so Scott spends a lot of his time teaching him control. So far, it's not exactly working out. (He needs Stiles.))

Malia… Malia doesn't really care for him, and maybe it's the whole coyote's don't get along with wolves, trickster spirits don't get along with protectors, _monsters,_ thing, he's not sure. But she is pack, so he tries, no matter how cold she is towards people other than Lydia, sometimes Kira… and Stiles.

 _Stiles._

Something was up with him, Scott knows that. Something _is_ up with him, and it has been for a while, even before all the stuff that happened.

 _(Oh god, Allison…)_

And by something, he means Stiles being something… _other_ than human.

Preternatural, he thinks, maybe, sometimes. But Scott just doesn't want to admit that, not to himself and not to anyone else, so he just stares warily from the side-lines, holds up the torch uselessly as Stiles tries to fix everything.

He should really help, as the Alpha, he thinks, but that's one of his flaws. He just doesn't think he _can._

So he watches as Stiles gets closer and closer to the breaking point, and thinks that he's just another person holding up a light to help him find his way there.

(Malia seems to keep him together though. When he gets too frayed at the edges, they disappear off somewhere, and when they come back he generally looks more together than before. That happens more often than he'd like to admit.

He thinks that, as his best friend, as a person Stiles _needs,_ he should be trying, at least.

He's ashamed that he isn't.)

So he found a way to get them alone together, in the jeep, and that talk…

Well. It didn't go quite as planned, but he thinks maybe they're on the road to recovery, at least.

(Man, he's getting good at this metaphor stuff, He thinks. Jeeps and roads and lights and pathways.

Probably not though. In fact, he's probably terrible at it.)

And, well, he wonders sometimes…

Well. It doesn't matter.

Moving on…

His mom's worried about him, he knows she's concerned, thinks he should take some time to heal his own mental wounds, some she doesn't even know exist.

 _(We were no-one…)_

But he just can't, and he supposes she just will never understand what it means to be a true alpha.

To put others first, to defend your pack no matter what it takes. To be the decision maker, to do the hard, difficult things, and lead.

He's not doing a great job of that, lately. He's let things go, let them deteriorate just like Stiles' jeep, Roscoe, has been left to break down.

They just – He just does not have the _time_ to fix things, because it's one thing after another with them. (It's only been a year since he was bitten; they're only seventeen. It's just _too much_.)

It was never right with them, he knows that. Knows that he shouldn't feel responsible for the deaths just as much as stiles shouldn't feel responsible for what the nogitsune did, but he does, and he thinks, sometimes very often, _too many people die, because of us._

And he feels guilty for the thoughts that plagued his head during his stay at the Glen Capri, because why should he deserve that release from responsibility? Why should he have the right to leave so many behind, to leave them to cry at the funeral and pick up the pieces?

He shouldn't, and he doesn't, because he's the _Alpha._ He has to be strong for everyone else, he _has_ to give them hope.

Because if he gives up… He knows that at least Stiles would follow. (And a world without a _Stiles_ in it sounds like a dreadful place. He just – just _can't_ even contemplate it.)

 _("If you're gonna do this… you're just gonna have to take me with you then.")_

 _("Stiles!" "What if it saves you? What if it saves all of you?")_

He shakes his head of these thoughts, and moves forward. _Gotta keep moving forwards._

He parks his bike at the entrance to the school, and sees his friends, _his pack,_ talking and laughing and joking and seemingly happy even though they're really not.

And just like them, he puts on a mask, walks over and greets Kira with a peck on the lips and nods at the rest of them, ignoring the icy stare Lydia gives to the other students, the way Malia grabs Stiles' hand and hides their clasped grip from prying eyes, the way stiles subtly lowers his hoodie's sleeve down to cover any exposed skin. The way Kira notices and stares, confused, but at one little nudge from Lydia murmurs something about class and hurries off to where she 'needs' to be _right now._ Lydia smiles, more smirks with teeth showing, and strides off after Kira with a flip of her perfect hair, them having the same homeroom. He shares a glance with Stiles, one of empathetic concern, and he can almost hear the _she'll be alright, buddy. We all have to be_ he might've said if they were alone. Malia inclines her head with a small, fake smile that turns more genuine as Stiles throws his arm round her shoulders. (Scott notices that he avoids skin-on-skin contact, and files it away for later.)

They turn as one, and walk off, steps in sync in a way that used to be them, him and Stiles, and he feels a pang of _something_ as he watches them leave.

His pack are on shaky ground, and he's worried that it's not gonna last much longer standing the way it is.

(He _knows_ it's not. But he can't really do anything, and every time he tries to fix things it only seems to make them worse.)

He hurries off after the two of them, because they have the same homeroom, and he doesn't want to be late.

(He keeps them in sight but doesn't approach. With a start, he realises he feels like he'd be intruding, and he wonders, _when did that happen?_

When he let it get so bad even duct tape can't fix it.)


	4. End of 4th Week: Foxes and Tea, Talking

That morning when Stiles wakes up, Malia's left him a note. He reads it, mulling over the words and chuckling at her phrasing, the quotation marks around _'girls' day out'_ and her distaste for the whole idea. (Apparently, Lydia decided for the rest of the girls that they were _going_ to go have a day to themselves, go shopping watch movies, go to the spa, etc.) But still, since it was Lydia who came up with it, well.

Who says _no_ to _Lydia Martin?_

Heh. Yeah, thought so. (Assuming you agree no-one does, that is.)

So anyway.

Stiles figured now is as good a time as any – 11 o'clock on a Saturday – to start confronting some of his problems…

Head on.

(So he does. Gets ready, 'eats' breakfast, takes some (read: more than recommended) Adderall, gets in the jeep. Drives.

He drives to the Yukimura's.)

Stiles thanks whatever lucky stars are in existence and many other possible factors that only Mrs. Yukimura, _Noshiko,_ is at home right now. (He knows why Kira isn't there, but he honestly does not care why Mr. Yukimura isn't. It doesn't matter, all that matters is that they aren't present.)

When kira's mother, _the fox,_ opens the door, he sees surprise on her face for a split second.

Or. Well. He _feels_ the surprise like a shock of electricity, which seems fitting, the confusion like a brief wave of nausea, and the biting edge of being frustrated at yourself; she apparently isn't used to being caught off-guard.

She stares at him, for a few moments, then steps aside, and he enters at the unspoken invitation.

For a while, they just stand there in the hallway, Stiles feeling awkwardly out of place and Noshiko – _Mrs. Yukimura,_ she feels like the waves of frustration on a stormy day. He waits, and they calm, and she leads him to the kitchen. She proceeds to make tea for the both of them, gestures for him to sit in the living room; for him to wait patiently.

So he does. (The lady – the _fox,_ she's over 900 years old. Listen to your ancient, sorta-powerful, actually-wanted-to-murder-you elders. Well. Not him, specifically. _Him,_ not him, if that makes sense.)

She brings the tea over, places it in front of him and he stares, stone faced and blank eyed, into the cup. She sits, crosses one leg over the other and sips from her tea, patiently waits to hear his reasons for coming. He licks his lips, pauses in nervousness, and begins.

"You said – four weeks ago, now, you said, and I quote, 'More you than nogitsune'." He breaks off, pauses, and chews on his lip for a second. "What – What, exactly, did you mean by that. Aside from the obvious. Please don't say 'what it sounds like', because then you'd be about as helpful as Deaton is at the best of times, and no-one wants that. Except maybe Deaton. Um. I'm – I'm gonna shut up now." He shifts, restless, and starts tapping that rhythm, that stupid, _freakin'_ rhythm, the one he knows yet doesn't, and her gaze snaps to it, to his fingers tap-tap- _tapping_ on her couch cushions.

He stills his hand, a violent jerk of an aborted movement, and his foot starts tapping, his leg bounces and he gives up on being still.

(Hell, maybe he's developed a higher tolerance to Adderall. He's not sure if that's a thing you can do but – but well. It doesn't seem to be as effective anymore. Even when he _technically,_ technically overdoses. He means, he doesn't O.D., considering he'd be dead if he did – he's not even sure if you can, from Adderall, but he's never risked it he doesn't think.)

(He'll research it later.)

Belatedly, he realised she was waiting for him to continue. "So. So, uh. So – I, I'd like to know, you know, what you – what you implied, by that, aside from the obvious and it'd be a great help if you could tell me. Uh. Yeah."

She sighed, and placed down her cup, the tea finished and it empty. His was still full. "Drink," She commanded, and he lifted the cup and drank from it, grimacing at the taste but swallowing anyway. She nodded, pleased, and glared at the cushion he'd tapped before as if it personally had offended her. "I mean what I said. That nogisune is trapped, but there are effects from a fox possession… that you were not showing. In fact, some of your side effects were the opposite to what should have been. You lost the ability to read; yet you should have instantly learned Japanese, if you did not already speak it. You were dying, that much is true, but from what I remember of fox possessions that is not supposed to be the case. And also… you are male. Which is an… odd, decision of host, considering foxes tend to possess women. But then, this nogitsune, it chose – chose a man over a kitsune to possess, so maybe it was simple personal preference. I am… unsure. The rules are not rigid in the supernatural world, compared to your human science. Ever fluctuating, ever changing. Maybe six, three hundred years ago what I describe was true, but maybe now what you experienced is true for a fox possession... of that type. So you asked, and I will answer. I have heard… rumours, in my time in this town. A spark, they say, a spark in beacon hills. And I wonder… would that be enough to keep at least some of the fox? So, yes. As far as I can tell you are no longer kin, yet… there is something. There is always something."

He lowers his cup, and she glares at him. "Drink." She commands again, and, reluctantly, he finishes the tea, sits in silence with her unnerving gaze focused on him. Stiles shifts, and speaks. "I – I have, a… theory, and I'd like for you to listen. Um. So, okay, there was a reason I was susceptible to the nogitsune, right?" He paused long enough for her to realise he'd asked a question. "… As far as I understand, anyone is susceptible to possession. Yes, some more than others but from what I have heard…" She paused, considering her next words, carefully mulling over what to say. "… a spark ignites power. A void… it absorbs. Another name for nogitsune is void kitsune… but if you are having after effects… well, I see no sense in that. The nogitsune would have been able to tap into any of your abilities… using its own would have blown it's cover; ruined it's trick." He blinked at her. "Why?" she took the cup from his hands, gently unwrapping his white-knuckled fingers from the handle and the cup itself. She placed it down, on the mat, and looked at him, assessing, for a few moments. "When someone is possessed – whether it be by an outside force or their own nature, or uses too much power for their body to handle, their eyes go white. It can be their own power, or power they gained from outside sources, but it still, generally, follows that rule. The person or being whose eyes glow white usually experience a burning sensation; for the power is being released through their eyes, the excess is being expelled from their body." She clasps her hands in her lap and sends her unnerving stare towards his, one tapping the rhythm and the other clenched on the couch cushion. "You remember." She states, because they both know he does even if he's never told her, even if he's never truly told anyone, not even Malia (though she figured it out, she knew, some kind of sense of empathy letting her know he did remember, even if he never explicitly said so.). He nods in confirmation anyway, and she continues. "Do you remember burning?" "No." He replies, for the first time truthfully, about what he remembers. "No, I don't." She nods, a calculating gaze looking over him. She nods, having come to a decision about… something. No- _Mrs._ _ **Yukimura,**_ she walks over to a cabinet, and for the first time he notices the pull he's felt towards it since he got within a few yards of her house. Stiles stares, warily, at the cabinet, with a feeling that he knows what's in there. She opens it, and removes the false back, revealing brickwork. He notices, though he shouldn't from this distance, Stiles notices four bricks that are ever so slightly off in colour, the tiniest bit extended out of the wall. He shifts, unconsciously moving towards the cabinet, whilst still staying on the couch.

He leans forward, and murmurs, "I'm not gonna lie, I don't think this is a very wise move, - uh, Mrs. Yukimura." If she noticed he stumbled over what to call her, she didn't call him out on it. Instead, she seemingly ignored him, and removed the four bricks – top left, top right, bottom right, bottom left – systematically, to reveal a specific wood box, made from a tree he knew too well and containing a creature he's not ashamed to admit he's terrified of.

(It can bring out the worst of him.)

She pauses, and looks back at him. "There is one way to check." She says, and for a second he feels a flash of concern, warmth quickly smothered by years of practice. "That is, if you are ready." He stares at the box, half out of his seat in a trance before he remembers himself and snaps out of it. "Not yet." He manages, and plonks himself forcefully down on the armchair he was next to. She, _Noshiko,_ nodded, and sat near him on the couch, the closest corner she could get. "You remember more than what you did, don't you?" and he nods, concentrating too much on not going to the cabinet and removing the bricks to give any kind of proper response. She nods, and says "You have some habits you didn't before, now, don't you?" and he nods again, and murmurs, "They're easily suppressible though. I only wake up at five am, ready for another day in the… the _camp,_ every few days now. And, and even if I think of pulling some dangerous pranks, I can stop myself before I'm even half way through the planning stage." He sighed, and continued. "But I can't stop myself from angry outbursts all the time, and as you've noticed I really cannot stop myself from tapping the stupid rhythm on any available surface, and going over riddles in my head's become a way to pass the time. I do pull... I play tricks more often than I used to, though I never take credit. And…" Here, he hesitated, because he was about to approach a topic he's avoided since – since forever, really. Since he _manipulated_ the mountain ash, since he smashed a baseball bat to smithereens with hardly any build in the swing, since he's done a lot of things, like holding the dead weight of a paralyzed adult with insane muscle mass (seriously, it's ridiculous.) _and,_ to top it all off, for two hours and fully clothed (which _does_ weigh you down, like, a lot) with shoes and everything.

So yeah. He's avoided. (Never really called himself human. Avoided it with deflections or sarcasm. Or allusions with double meanings.)

She gave him some time to collect his thoughts, and for that he's grateful.

Finally, he started to talk. By now, it was midday, the sun high in the sky. The contrast the weather made with the topic of conversation means something, he's sure, but maybe some gloomy weather, you know, pathetic fallacy, would be good. (Or not. Because then Kira would have to come home, and. Well. He's not too sure how he'd – they'd, explain his presence.

"I can feed off of emotions." He said, quietly, a sharp contrast to his usually loud and in-your-face personality. "The stronger the easier, some I don't even need contact for anymore. In the beginning, it was – it was only negative ones… and chaos, strife, pain. You know, the usual buffet. Emotions started bleeding in right around the time I started sensing them properly." ( _I eat what you feel… and I'm_ _ **insatiable.)**_ He cleared his throat, and blinked the remnants of the memory of Oak Creek from his vision. While he was dazed and guilty, horribly, horribly guilty feeling for the… _undertones…_ of that particular nogitsune event, Noshiko went to the kitchen, taking the cups with her. A few minutes later she returned, more tea in hand, and sat, ready for him to continue now he'd pulled himself together. Stiles nods his thanks, and does so.

"My… my senses are better than they were, before. Though even then I could hear Lydia's scream… so. I don't – I haven't really wanted to think about what that means. And I _am_ stronger, at times, much – much like before, but it happens more often and gets triggered by strong emotion. Anger, mainly, but fear as well. Any strong emotion, or bad situation, but those two raise my strength the most." "Much like before?" She questions, none too gently, and he replies. "Smashing baseball bats into smithereens and holding an adult, alpha, paralysed werewolf up for two hours in water. Not exactly the most normal of things to be able to do." "If you count the times when possessed, how many more examples of… something, do you have up your sleeve?" He stared at the tea, going cold, forgotten on the mats. "A lot." He manages, and feels a strong, _strong_ pull towards the cabinet. He's out of his seat before he realises it, half turned towards the cabinet. "My family will not be here next Sunday." She states, and he takes it for the dismissal and invitation it is.

(He's not ready.)

"We'll see how you do after a week, and I will see if we can find a way to schedule these meetings. I have… a feeling, that they will become necessary, if I am to help you with the after effects of possession. It is, after all, the least I can do." He nods, already on his way out and says, sincerely; "Thank you, N-Mrs. Yukimura." She nods, ignores his slip up, and follows him to the door. He leaves, and she watches him, until the blue jeep is but a speck in the distance.

She's not quite sure what she's offered, and she's not quite sure how this will turn out, but it is obvious he is not getting the help he requires, because it is obvious he and his friends are all trying to pretend what has happened, never did.

(She's hoping, that in helping the previously possessed teen, she may make up for the wrong she did in inviting the nogitsune here, to beacon hills, in the first place.)

The fox lady turns, walks down the hall, and dials a number in her telephone. It rings for a minute, and is picked up. "Hello?" a voice, clear and slightly confused, hidden by a stoic calm but if she's learned anything in her nine hundred years it's how to see through masks, disguises, even if she can only hear a voice, answers. "Hello Deaton." She says calmly, and hears the surprise in his silence. "I would like to speak with you." A pause, then a reply. "On what topic, in what… line of work?" "I will be straight with you now, Emissary, kitsune to druid. We need to talk of the Spark, the one who has Void 'round his heart; the one who absorbs power, ignites it, and has an endless supply of space for it, because the Void is never sated. And a spark, well. They burn _everything._ He _is_ dangerous, Emissary, and you are not doing your job by ignoring that." Another, longer, pause. "Alright." Deaton replies. "As you wish. When, and where, will this meeting be held?" "At my home, on Sunday. Do _not_ be late, Druid. In fact, be early." She can almost hear his nod, in the way the static crackles across the connection. "Of course." He finishes, and states a quick, "Goodbye, Mrs. Yukimura." And she replies. "Deaton.". She puts the phone back down, listens to the click and the sound of a call being shut off, and sighs. Moving gracefully to the living room, she sits on the couch, and picks up her tea. Taking a sip, she ignores the coldness of it, and ponders, staring at the Cabinet.

This is how Kira finds her when she gets back home, a huge smile on her face, hair and makeup done just right, a new outfit on her person and bags and _bags_ worth of shopping. "Today was great," she chirped, and plopped herself on the couch next to her mother. The smile dropped as she noticed her mom's expression, the two, cold, unfinished cups of tea on the table. The way she was staring at the cabinet with the false back, the one which shouldn't be open but is, and she registers the two mats and the wrinkles in the armchair cushions. "Mom?" she questioned, quietly, concerned. "You alright?" Mrs. Yukimura nodded, absently, and went to pick up the tea cups. "Would you close the cabinet? I shall deal with the tea." The older kitsune left the room, and with a sigh and a feeling of wariness, Kira quickly put the cabinet back together. She wondered why it was open in the first place, but the box hadn't been moved so she figured her mother was just checking up on it.

(That didn't explain the armchair being a bit lower into the floor than usual, and the two mats, and the messy arrangement of the cushions, but she figured it wasn't her business. Besides, like everyone else she was happy swimming in denial.)

(Later, she found a tea cup with groves that look like finger marks, dents in the cup. She throws it out and pretends that she didn't see anything.

After all, it can't be too serious, right?)


	5. From Another Perspective (Lydia POV)

Lydia Martin prides herself on knowing how to use a situation to her advantage. After all, she's been honing her skill since the start of high school – even before that, though sadly without actually using it to its full extent, as she had been only a child, after all.

She also prides herself on her acting, and her ability to use and manipulate her words and the words of others to achieve the ends she requires.

She's been doing this for years, and now all that practice is being put to the test.

You see, only a few weeks prior, there had been some fucking horrible shit going down, to put it lightly, and her _best friend_ and main confident was murdered.

A sword straight through the stomach, she had been told.

(She already knew that. The voices were whispering long before it happened. On lazy days and during the quiet hours, the voices were loudest. She never had any quiet before the storm.)

 _Allison!_ Had ripped through her throat from her voice box, loud and echoing and eardrum-breaking. She thinks she might have temporarily deafened Stiles from it, but she hadn't. (He'd heard it though, which should have been impossible, so she'd filed that away for later analysis.)

Her voice had been hoarse for days and days after – Her throat was sore most days, from all the screaming, but that had been the most painful. Most likely, she thinks, because she'd known her.

And then the funeral happened. It was morbid, as funerals generally are, and quiet, one of the sadder songs from Allison's playlists echoing around them in the silence, which was broken by those crying and those saying things that in the end meant nothing. (Lydia hadn't paid attention. Sandwiched between Scott and Kira, as they all tried to break each other's hands judging by the force they were squeezing with)

Chris left for France thereafter, taking Isaac with him.

It was for the best, in the end. They'd both lost too much to stay in the town that destroyed them, and Isaac should have probably left ages ago. So should have the Argents, and, to be honest, so should the rest of them.

This town was cursed by a dead beacon, and wasn't that a recipe for disaster?

So yes. After all that, was it not expected She'd try to fake it, like she had done since she was little?

And, yes, it was more than just hiding her intelligence this time, but in the end, it was as much for those around her as for herself.

You see, rather selfishly, they'd all unanimously, without saying a single word, decided to pretend everything was sunshine and daisies now. They needed the break from all the supernatural shit that this town likes to throw at them, and, for once, it seemed to be complying…

So long as they kept pretending.

(It's funny, she thinks. The pauses in the danger and the mayhem should be used to fix what's broken, but for them they only happen when they pretend nothing's wrong and they're all perfectly normal teenagers that do not need therapy, thank you very much.)

So she did. As well as she could, given the circumstances, she wore her old personality like armour, high heels and red lipstick and a narrowed gaze with a fake smile. Knowing it was wrong and Scott disapproved, she went through as many 'boyfriends' as she could, starting one day and ending the next.

(One she'd liked enough to keep for a few days. But then he'd gotten too close, and she'd had to drop him.)

She had a reputation now, she knew, but she also knew she was pretty much back where she started; ruling the school with sharp, biting words, high heels and a math formula.

People seemed to think her scary, her taking it too far. Her friends didn't seem to care, so she deemed them (the people) stupid and ignored the Scott on her shoulder that was telling her to _stop._

The real one wasn't, so it didn't matter to her.

(Not any more, at any rate.)

She finished applying the last of her makeup, and shooed her most recent fling out the window.

Time for another day at school, she thinks, taking her highest heels and her nicest dress.

(The most expensive one, all flowy and lovely and reminiscent of springtime. Allison had pointed out the dress for her, and the shoes _were_ Allison's. She'd never worn them, so she'd given them to Lydia. Now, they're the most frequently used shoes the strawberry-blonde owns.)

She applies a coat of lipstick, some mascara and eyeshadow and all that's needed, styling her hair in loose curls.

She plastered a smile on her face, all painted perfection, grabbed a jacket and a bag and left her room.

Time to pretend again, she thinks. Time to forget.

School is the same as it has always been, and as per usual she feels as stab of envy in her heart, for those around her that have fully human worries and normal lives, not tainted by the supernatural that hangs around this town in particular.

They don't have banshee blood in their veins, and she wonders, as she always does, what it would be like to be _normal._ No incredible intelligence, average looks, a lack of Banshee heritage, a group of fully human friends and thinks it would be boring, if so, so much safer.

 _So much safer._

She smiles at Scott and Kira, listens to the inane chatter of the students and glares at those who stare.

(Stiles and Malia arrive. They sit in the stupid jeep for longer than is necessary and nod to each other. Malia brushes her hand across his sleeve, and he moves just enough so that it is only a feather-light touch. Lydia's eyes narrow. They exit the car.)

Stiles grins an expertly faked grin, and she can't help but respect his acting talents. Scott smiles, genuine, as Stiles claps a hand just above his shoulder in greeting. (There is maybe half a centimetre gap, and his hand is removed as fast as is possible, to avoid the chance of skin-on-skin contact. It was fast and almost unnoticeable but Lydia's been keeping an eye out for oddness. This classifies.)

Scott ignores that no sound was made, since it never actually made contact, and pecks Kira on the lips. She smiles, also genuine, and nods to Stiles and Malia. Stiles nods back, a faked quirk to his lips.

Malia's not that great at pretending; her hand is clutching at Stiles' baggy sleeve, her smile forced and obvious.

Lydia greets them, and they greet her back, and the group separates into two.

(They walk to their homerooms separately these days. Stiles with Scott and the girls with each other. If Allison was alive, they wouldn't split, she thinks. The groups would at least be even, if they did.)

Lydia notes the tense set of Stiles' shoulders, the hard glint of his eyes and nudges Kira to stand between him and Scott.

She does, and he relaxes, stands further away from the two of them than is strictly necessary.

 _There._ Her good deed for the day.

She takes Malia's arm and guides them in the direction of Malia's homeroom.

 _Wouldn't want to be late, now, would we?_

She hears through the grapevine about how Stiles acts, when the pack isn't present.

It's not much; not by their standards, but at the same time if anyone in the know knew the extent that even the gossip mongers don't know – and therefore Lydia doesn't know –

It would be incriminating, or at the very least, worrying.

Lydia hears of anger; of ' _he's actually kind of terrifying? I don't know but his expressions creep me out sometimes',_ of ' _did you hear what he said?! Savage, if true, but still – it was pretty uncalled for. I'm not sure how he hasn't been called to the principal's office yet',_ and ' _did you hear, he was in Eichen house for a while – no wonder he's the way he is; if you weren't crazy before, you are when you leave.'_

It's not the most reassuring of information, but she pays the kids anyway, and one of the freshmen runs off with her new designer handbag before Lydia can take it back; can decide the information wasn't good enough.

She doles out the rest of the payments, and they all run off as fast as the first.

Scowling, she turns to the next one, and his words are more of the same.

' _Did you hear, he hasn't been to econ or lacrosse practice since Coach was put in rehab after his hospital visit – apparently his blood alcohol levels were worrying or something, doesn't matter – and when the teacher asked Malia Tate about it she brought up the sheriff card and he dropped it, scowling? I don't know, seems fishy…'_

 _Blah, blah, blah._ She wishes they'd get some new information, before she has to up her standards and they have to up their prices.

' _…also, I'm not sure how reliable this information is, as it's from Mandy, the creepy girl who hallucinates? Yeah, that one – she said when she looks at him, she sees shadows and foxes, lightning and darkness, feels the power of the earth and the pull of the void. Creepy as fuck, right? Pretty sure she's just crazy, but you said you wanted to know everything, so…'_

 _Wait. What?_

Lydia jerks to attention, stares at the kid – what was his name, again? Brendon? Barry? Bob? Eh – "Stop. Mandy?"

The kid, this time, she notes, a junior – now dubbed 'Bob' because she doesn't know his name and doesn't care – nods. "Yeah. Mandy. About, yea high –" his hand is flat, waving slightly above his head and a head-height taller than her, even in heels – "- Crazy as you would not believe. Sees shit no-one else does; claims to read auras but she's just bat-shit insane according to her medical prescription. Spent a while in Eichen house but got let out recently. She's been put in junior year, though she should be a senior, since she had no education whilst in the Insane Asylum."

"Right." Lydia nodded, dryly. "Her name?"

He blinked, then looked sheepish. "Oh. Uh – Mandy Briarson. Weird name, right?"

She hummed. "Not the weirdest I know."

He nodded, a quirk to his lips. "Right. You know Malia-"

"Muh-leah," Lydia corrected. "Not Ma-Lia. Muh-leah." He smiled. "Exactly. And, you hang around with that – Stilinski, guy, right? Sheriff's kid. No-one actually knows his name."

She rolled her eyes. "I know this." Bored now, she handed him the pack of rare cards. "Here. I don't know why you'd want these, but whatever." Her eyes glinted. "I'll up my price though, next time. Spread it around; I keep on getting more of the same information. Find me new things, or get nothing."

He nodded. "Fair. I'll tell the others – a couple have siblings in the lower years who can pass on the info with the correct bribery to those below. I'll tell my older bro about it – he can pass it on to Jaz, who's his girlfriend. She'll spread it 'round the seniors."

Lydia nodded, a sharp smile on her face. "Same time, same place. We'll have to risk it."

He nodded, serious. "Sure. See ya, Martin." He nodded again, and left the room.

The smile stayed on Lydia's face for a moment, then fell off and was replaced by a frown.

Stiles wasn't quite good enough at acting to cover recently gained personality problems, it seems.

That _is_ a definite weak link. Lydia needs to fix this…

Or, alternatively, find out _what the fuck is going on_ with her friend.

Supernatural shit may happen, but she's tired of pretending.

(Allison wouldn't want them to dwell for too long, she thinks. She's still in mourning, but she'll use the memory of her friend to protect her other ones.

She has to. Scott isn't doing it, so someone has to.

 _It might as well be me.)_

As if karma, the supernatural rears its ugly head a few nights later.

(by a few, she literally means three. Why would she mean more, when a few means three or four? Ridiculous. Use the correct terms, thank you.)

There's an omega loose in the streets of Beacon Hills – an omega that's gone crazy.

She, of course, finds out the next day. Scott apparently dealt with it… badly, as the omega's dead and Scott's got a beta. Liam, his name is. Liam Dunbar.

Just some freshmen with intermittent explosive disorder.

 _Fuck, Scott. Seriously?_

With a sigh, Lydia leans back into her couch, staring at the page in the psychology book she picked up so she'd have a better idea of what they're going to have to deal with, alongside the werewolf problems he's been heaped with.

 _Damnit._

(Lydia wishes stiles was here to help her research. Scott's adamant they try to get it under control – at least, a little – first.)

Her phone rings, and its Kira. "Kira?" she asks. "Yeah, hey Lydia. Uh, Scott's asking – he told stiles. Said it happened last night, which is true. He's finally caved and got Stiles to get his dad to stall the authorities, however he can, and he's bringing Stiles over to Derek's old place. Me, Malia and Liam are already here… Can you stop by Deaton's and get something to knock him out, just in case? We don't wanna hurt him, but he's being stupid. So…"

Sighing, Lydia nodded. "Yeah. Sure, I'll be there."

She put her book down, left the room and took her mother's car keys.

(It's not like she's home now. It's not like she'd care if she was.)

Lydia gets in the car, and she drives.

Stiles injected Liam in the side of his arm, right where a vein should be, and it took all of half a minute for the freshman to be knocked out.

Everyone stared at Stiles (aside, of course, from Malia) as he walked over to the couch and sat down, massaging his temples.

(Malia glared at Liam as if he'd offended her personally. Judging by her possessiveness of her friends, he had done. (as Scott's first bitten, he'd taken the position as the Alpha's second. The guilt of biting him was more than the guilt she'd carefully made sure he had understood he should have, after turning Malia human without her consent. She's annoyed, obviously. But more on behalf of Stiles.))

There was a pause, a moment of silence, and before someone could say something stupid, Lydia spoke, colouring her words with amusement. "Well, that's one way to calm him down."

(She was amused – that was how it could be convincing. To be honest, the most amusing part was Scott's face during the whole situation.)

Lydia caught the movement of Scott's jaw, and before she could stop him from doing something stupid, Malia did it for her. _"What?"_ The werecoyote snapped, and Scott's jaw clicked shut at the note of warning her tone conveyed.

(Malia's hand tightened on stiles' shirt, and Scott averted his eyes, guilty. Lydia surmised that he'd probably flinched, and that the weres had seen it. She sympathised. It's hard to hide things from supernaturally enhanced people.)

Kira interrupted the tense air in the room with her own brand of unfailing optimism. "At least he's not a danger to himself, now." She pointed out, and at least that was true.

Lydia nodded, and Scott's shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

(Stiles' face looked relieved, for a moment. Lydia was the only one who was actually looking in his direction.)

"So, let's go over this. I - I'm a werewolf." Liam stated, a questioning tone to his voice.

Lydia saw Stiles roll his eyes.

"Yes, you little runt. You're a werewolf. Scott's your Alpha. Lydia's a banshee. Kira's a-"

"Fox spirit. Right?" Liam interrupted, confident in the knowledge, then unsure it was quite correct. Kira shrugged. "Fox works." "Kitsune's the term though," Lydia decided to point out. "Don't want him to offend anybeing."

(That would be rather a problem, if he did.)

Stiles nodded in agreement. "Right? Anyway, Kira; kitsune. The Argents; Mostly hunters though I suppose some could have abstained from the family business. Hale's are generally werewolves, though I suppose there could be other weres in the family, and I know for a fact that there were humans before the main, Hale Pack, strain was wiped out by Kate Argent. So that's Derek, Cora, and Peter Hale, so far as we know. Malia here's a werecoyote, and yeah, that seems 'bout it."

Stiles didn't say anything about himself in that little spiel, but he didn't for Isaac or Scott or Jackson either so it's most likely nothing.

Liam seemed curious. "What're you?" he asked of Stiles.

( _please answer truthfully Stiles. Come on, now or never.)_

Stiles blinked a few times, possibly confused. "Me? Well, for a while I was possessed by this evil spirit. It was very evil." _Clever. An answer that's a non-answer. Well done._

"What about now?" The new wolf questioned further, a curious gleam in his eyes.

 _Far too curious._

Stiles started tapping a random rhythm on his leg, signifying his nervousness. _His fidgeting was always one of his tells_.

Malia, probably thinking she was being discrete, grabbed his arm and stilled his movement.

Lydia watched from the corner of her eye. Stiles stopped moving, completely, unnaturally still. _Shit. He noticed._

Stiles spoke. "...better?..."

Lydia kept her gaze focused on Stiles, as the others glanced, but Liam didn't notice the problems with that reply and nodded in acceptance.

"Right. So, I have to keep this secret?"

Stiles spoke before anyone else could, and Lydia felt annoyed. "If you think it's right to. Some things are better out in the open, but if you think someone would be happier not knowing then don't tell them unless absolutely necessary." "However, I think you should tell your closest friend, and your parents, or parent." Lydia put in, butting in before Scott could get a word in edgewise.

Scott's expression was one of annoyance.

We should probably should let him talk.

Stiles continued. "But really, in the end it's your alpha's decision. First thing Derek should have told us, but really didn't - packs aren't democracies. They're dictatorships. What the Alpha says, goes, and that's why they have in-pack advisors. Sounding boards, really. Anyway, what I'm saying is that it ultimately is up to Scott if you say anything...""or don't," Malia added onto the end.

All eyes were on Scott, and he opened his mouth, paused, and then spoke. "I think it should be up to you. I don't know the people you know, don't know how they'd react to the supernatural. Some people just can't handle it, and some can. Those that can't, they can go... bad. Or, alternatively, they can just... just - Go."

Lydia flinched at the meaning behind those words, and hoped that no-body saw it.

Liam visibly swallowed, and made an.. odd facial expression before returning to a normal one and nodding. "I have someone in mind, but I'm not - not gonna tell my stepdad. At least, not yet." They all nodded, but Lydia and Scott noticed Stiles' expression contort oddly (in a worrying manner), saw his head jerk to a sudden stop. Malia's grip tightened, her knuckles white so therefore using all her considerable were-coyote strength, however Stiles didn't even wince. Lydia noted Malia's grip, and noticed Stiles' lack of pain, and filed it away for later. As did Scott, though he held a look of surprise on his face because of it.

"So... Can I leave?" Scott rapidly shook his head at Liam, and Stiles stared at him, wide-eyed. "Oh my god no that's a terrible idea. You don't have control yet, full moon's tomorrow, you have anger issues, you won't be in control of your own actions - do you want to go to town on your family members?!"

The lights flickered. Lydia pursed her lips, and glanced at Kira, wondering if she was as worried but was keeping silent about it.

Kira winced, apologetically.

(and then looked confused, as she knew there was no reason for her to have done that and besides, so far, she's needed to touch something for anything to happen and it was never consistent. )

Kira remembered something her mother told her, and flicked her eyes over to Stiles, unnoticed by Scott, Malia and Stiles.

(Lydia still had her eyes on Kira, so the glance did not go unnoticed.)

Liam stared at Stiles, wide eyed, perhaps rightly worried now, and Scott reached out to him, led him to the side, murmured quiet words to the new beta.

Malia dragged Stiles over to the couch by the arm, and sat them down together. Lydia saw Stiles looking at her and Kira as she grabbed the girl and led her to the other side of the room so that they could talk.

(Lydia also noted that Stiles had pretty much instantaneously looked away afterwards, but that didn't matter right now.)

"So." She started. "The lights. Was that you, or…?" Kira shook her head, just as confused as before. "No. It wasn't."

There was a pause, and Kira glanced at Stiles, a troubled look on her face.

"My mother said –" Then she stopped, as if losing confidence. More quietly, she continued. "My mother said… when her kin vomited up Stiles – She said 'more you than nogitsune', right? And, at the time I thought it meant nothing – to be honest, I didn't even register it properly." She hesitated, then ploughed on. "But the stuff I've been hearing around school… and from my Dad about what's discussed at teacher conferences…"

There was another, longer pause.

Lydia remained, quiet, patiently waiting for Kira to finish.

"- he obviously doesn't know I'm listening, he tells it to mom which is… worrying – uhm. You – You've heard though, right? Some of the weird things that happen at school when Stiles isn't with us."

Lydia nodded, because of course she had. She has a network of gossipers at her beck and call, of course she's heard.

(It might as well be a spy network. If it is, she's the boss. Some (read; most) are set to find information on Stiles, the rest are set for general weirdness around school – things that could be supernatural problems. It would be easier if they had some other medium than meeting in abandoned class rooms to converse with, but as it stands it's alright.)

Kira nodded in return. "I guess you've never used the desk," she said, hesitantly. "But some people have – they say words have been carved into its surface because of how hard he was pressing down the pen when writing."

Lydia looked at her, askance. "Writing?"

"Yeah." Kira grimaced. "There's a reason why he switched seats. He practically carved his possession into that wood. 'Wake up', 'just a dream' and a bunch of riddles, some answered some not. 'When is a door not a door', 'Everyone has it but no-one can lose it'. The second one was never answered… until the day he had to sit there when we got back. You know, the first and last time he attended econ after the nogitsune? He carved the answer and bolted. People are still talking about it."

Lydia scowled, because no-one had told her this. "Right." She said, sharply.

Lydia sighed, her tone now tired. "And what your mother said?"

Kira nodded. "I think it's connected." She hesitated. "I – I wasn't going to ask. I don't think it's my place to, really." Her voice was more firm now. "I'm still not."

Lydia nodded, absently. "Fine."

Kira winced, glanced at the coyote and human hidden in the shadows. She looked back at Lydia. "And… I know it wasn't him, exactly. But we met when he was possessed, and – that's not the best first impression, is it?"

Lydia winced, then frowned. "It's not, but he was possessed, Kira."

Kira's tone was demanding. "Yeah. It was a thing with his face and his voice and his mannerisms – however twisted – doing all that stuff. Knocking me out, slapping my sword away as if it was nothing. Don't tell me you don't sometimes think of oak creek when you see him."

Lydia froze.

Her voice was like ice, her eyes cold and hard.

"That wasn't him."

"No." Kira agreed. "It wasn't."

"But it looked and sounded like him, and sometimes that's enough."

Lydia glared at the girl. "You didn't know him before."

Kira looked at her sadly. "And I think that's the problem. My first impression – possessed, occasionally crazy and ordered a guy to try to kill me via chalk on a board in code. If I knew him beforehand I would have happy, good memories to superimpose over the negative ones. But I don't, and therein lies the problem."

Lydia took a shaky breath.

Logically, it made sense, but all she could think of was the kind boy she knew superimposed over a monster, a creature that dragged its mouth over her ear and made her _very_ uncomfortable, that kidnapped her so that her friend would die and she'd feel pain he could feed off.

(She'd thought it was him that would die that night. After, she'd know better, and why he'd seemed unconcerned. She hadn't been able to be around Stiles until just before the funeral. _That_ was a fortnight after everything.)

Kira, with sympathetic eyes and a soft touch placed a hand on Lydia's bicep.

"I'm sorry for all this." She said quietly. "After all – it was my mother who summoned it here in the first place; that gave it the instructions to make everyone suffer."

And with a final pat, the kitsune wandered over to her boyfriend and the new beta.

Lydia stood there, still.

(She felt shaken. She would _not_ admit it.)

(It was the first time she'd really thought about oak creek since it happened. No-one ever dared bring it up.)

Another day, another pretence.

The day is Monday, another day at school. It's been a month's time since the events the nogitsune caused, a fortnight since the last of the funerals. Lydia, Malia, Stiles and Kira are standing outside the school, waiting for Scott to arrive. Kira, Malia and Stiles are conversing, joking and generally just pretending to be alright, and Lydia is smiling her faked smile and intersecting at just the right times.

(She's glaring at the rest of the students. She's glad some of them cower. (She's tired of doing the cowering. Of needing to be rescued and not preventing the deaths of her friends with her future-death predicting abilities.))

Scott arrives on his bike, gets off and walks over. He greets Kira with a chaste kiss, and it goes near unnoticed when Stiles steps away slightly – now just out of reach of any arms that might try to clap him on the shoulder.

It's a coincidence, honest.

(It's happened more than three times now. Lydia's kept count.)

Malia grabs stiles' arm, and they hide it between them. Lydia notices but doesn't note, as she's figured the whole Liam incident was karma for her plan to interfere. Kira notices, so Lydia nudges her less than gently, and with a wince murmurs ' _gotta get to class, bye guys'_ and hurries off. Lydia smirks, spins around and flounces off after her, a sway in her hips and distracting passers-by from her friends. Her hair flips when she turns, and her heels _clack_ on the ground.

(She follows Kira, eyes following her. After all, they have the same homeroom.)

Lydia has a plan. The day is Saturday, so she decides to use some of her family's money on her friends.

She buys her, Kira and Malia a half-day at the spa, and they go.

(She has plans. They _will_ have fun today; she _will_ distract them.)

They have fun. It's the first fully, genuinely relaxed day they've _had._

(Considering that they all met during the fiasco that was the events of a month ago, it's not really surprising but _still.)_

They talk, and it's easy. They joke, and go to the mall, and act as if they are normal friends having a fun day together.

(Rather than a group of slightly broken individuals having a break from their stressful lives.)

They watch a movie, and it's not half-bad, they eat mall food that doesn't make them sick and Lydia treats her friends to new clothes.

(Malia cannot apparently dress herself nicely, so Lydia takes it upon her shoulders to be her buyer for the day. She seems to be having reluctant fun, so Kira and Lydia grin at each other when she's out of sight and call it a win.)

(seriously though, argyle socks, those boots, a pair of not very nice shorts and that top? No thank you, Malia. Lydia _had_ to fix that. She probably should have helped her from the beginning, since it was stiles (who notoriously wore clothes too big for him and far too many layers) who had to teach her. Really, it was a fashion disaster waiting to happen.)

(For once, when she thinks Allison would have loved to help, and she imagines her here with them, pointing out the perfect clothes and persuading her to try things out of her usual style, it doesn't hurt too much to bear. She thinks, privately, that it's progress.)

Lydia drops Kira off at her house, staring suspiciously at the drawn curtains in the living room window. With a shrug, because today is not for anything that might lead to, she takes Malia back to the Sheriff's house.

(Stiles' car isn't there, but they both ignore it. Malia gets out of the car and goes into the back yard – most likely to enter from stiles' window.)

Lydia drives herself home, goes in and locks the door behind her. She drops the keys on the hall table, and goes upstairs.

(she has some IED reading to do.)


	6. And So It Begins

_**A/N:**_ **Hey. Long time no see. My fault entirely, that is, tbh. Though I have been writing other chapters for stories in the same fandom; if that's any consolation. Probably not, heh. So, let's get on with this, shall we?**

* * *

When Stiles pulls up into his driveway, the Sheriff's car isn't there, and the lights are off in the house.

He sighs.

Stiles sits there, for a moment, pondering what little conversation he'd just had with Noshiko- _Mrs. Yukimura,_ wondering if she does indeed wish to help or if the planned session is just a trick.

(It seems quite like a kitsune to do so, but then he remembers that's only the _one_ type.)

(And remembers that they - the pack - still don't know Nos- _you know what, I give up -_ Noshiko's type.)

Stiles grimaces, and, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts any longer, gets out of the car, locks the doors. He goes inside the house, and it is dark, and quiet.

Not silent, though. Stiles frowns, narrows his eyes and _concentrates._ He can just about make out noises coming from his bedroom; shuffling, movement noises, the quiet annoyed _grunt_ that is made, followed by a huff of air.

Ah. Malia's here.

Stiles relaxes, and walks upstairs at a leisurely pace. There's no rush; it's only Malia, and she's here constantly just because she wants to be.

When he opens, the door, he hears her mutter _"finally"_ but passes over it. She doesn't know he can hear her, quite yet, and he wants to keep it that way. She already worries enough.

"Malia." he says, feigning surprise. "When-?" he asks. She replies, though not in the way he expected. "She knows." Malia says, and he slumps because there's only one _she_ he'd never wanted to know. Malia looks at him sympathetically, and gestures towards the bed. He sits next to her, and takes her hands in his, initiating the contact for the first time since he'd gotten that stupid, _slightly evil_ ability.

Stark, thick, black veins spread out of her and travel up his arms, and it's both relieving and _absolutely horrible,_ because this - this _ability,_ it's _wrong._

Even so, its wonderful for the way it seems to take the constant weight off of his girlfriend's shoulders; the way she relaxes is something to behold.

It never happens often. Not without outside help.

She smiles, and its _genuine,_ and it _hurts_ because he _hates, despises_ this power, but it makes her feel _better,_ and _nothing_ does that. Nothing else anyone can do, because it's not a physical thing, her pain. Emotional, mental. There because of memory, and her experiences, and no matter how much a werewolf might want to their power is only for physical pain taking - and that is not the kind of pain they all suffer from.

(so therefore no-one can take his away. He feels that's fitting; he's already got so much. What's a little more, if it helps her? Nothing. Nothing _at all.)_

 _(_ And it doesn't work in the same way the werewolf power does. He can take any form of pain, and it _transforms,_ it changes into some kind of _energy,_ and it helps - _oh god,_ does it help. He doesn't feel like shit, when he does this and for a while after, but _god_ does he feel like _shit;_ because other people's pain gives him relief from his own, constant, consistent physical - well, _agony_. Werewolves take pain, but for them its a constant burden until their werewolf-iness heals the physical pain. But the burden of holding onto that pain, it's mental, and that can't be fixed with rapid-fire healing.)

She stares at him, deeply into his eyes and says "Thank you," and he _feels_ the sincerity like a warm blanket, and with a jolt he realises he hadn't felt her emotions upon entering. He realises he only does once - once the _energy, (_ he hates to call it _food_ but it _is_ and its _horrific,_ to him), once he's had - had enough of the energy to power him up enough to - to -

He lets go. She sighs, and her shoulders _slump,_ as if weighed down by some invisible force, and the instant, _crushing_ wave of _pain_ is both (he hates to admit the 'both') _intoxicating_ and terribly - he can't think of a better word - _painful,_ like - like -

 _What if it's agony now, and just - hell, later on?_

 _Think of what Winston Churchill once said. 'If you're going through hell - **keep going.'**_

Stiles thinks he might throw up, just from the sickening feeling in his stomach at the horrible stench of pain -

and he takes her hand, again. Again, she relaxes, and this - this is not the first time, not the first time he's done this since she asked him to, that day in Derek's old loft, when they were all gathered to discuss werewolves and all the other shit with the new runt - _Erhm._ \- Beta, Liam Dunbar.

"Lydia suspects something." She tells him, quietly, and the rush of concern hits him in the face so hard that it almost _literally_ knocks him backwards. He grabs onto her arm with his free one, and the small wave of pain he could still feel crashing lightly against her, against him, is _gone;_ the veins travelling up his arms thin, and turn a dark grey rather than stark black, as if the pain shares itself between the two connections, and that means all of the pain can travel to him, instead of leaving some behind simply because there was no space left for transfer.

"I know." Stiles tells her, as quiet as she was. "Its - difficult, to hide this shit. You know that."

She nods, and understanding shines through the waves of pain and the rush of concern like a light in darkness, and he instantly feels better. There's something about Empathy; the magical kind - the one he has, that makes other's emotions affect him more than they used to. Good ones, directed at him, especially, but that's only because he was - and is - a paranoid bastard; he'd never known if they were genuine or not. Now he does, and he can _feel_ that they are, can tell _why_ they're feeling the emotions in question, and it _helps,_ because now he knows _exactly_ who he can trust.

(That nagging feeling in his gut that had always been there - that, he thinks, may have been this, if underdeveloped. But he'd never really been able to figure out what it was trying to tell him; and, as a paranoid person, he'd always assumed the negative. It seems stupid now that he can properly read it, however he understands why he'd done so. Scott's unwavering optimism had needed a balance, after all. If not one that was quite as negative as he'd been.)

"We should tell her." She says, and he _freezes._ She hurries to explain. "She's gonna find out even if we don't, Stiles; and if we do - we'll be able to keep her from telling Scott."

 _Ah._ And there it was; her trump card. He glared, slightly, but it had no heat. Scott was the only one he desperately wanted to keep this a secret from - he'd mind Lydia knowing, of course; but it was better than the alternative.

"Fine." He acquiesces, and she smiles grimly at him. "I'll call her. I may or may not have left the entirety of the wardrobe she'd forced upon me in the boot of her car."

Stiles laughed at that, loud and clear in the quiet house. Malia grinned alongside it, and he felt her happiness at his laughter.

(It had been a while since she'd heard it, heard the genuine kind.)

He nods, and reluctantly she lets go, and instantly he feels her pain settle around her shoulders like some sort of restraint; he almost chokes at the tightening he feels around his throat.

(He knows this is not how she feels it; to her it's just pain, just a weight. He's the only one who feels like its some sort of horrible torture device, slowly choking her until she can breathe no more.

There's a reason why he's constantly holding her hand.)

Her eyes are soft, once last glance before she leaves the room, and to him the silence is suffocating.

(Before it had never been. But once _He_ had happened, once he'd started feeling all of - of _everything,_ silence was something he could do without.

Leaving him to his own thoughts was worse, because he still hadn't gotten over his time of crazy; not yet, and he thinks he never will.)

He taps the rhythm onto his leg, taps his foot along with it. Looks around the room aimlessly, and without having an attack he _panics._

 _(Being alone would be the worst kind of punishment.)_

Of course, she's back after not long; maybe a few minutes, and he feels _stupid_ for panicking, _because they'd never leave the other behind,_ but he did anyway and she knows it; can smell the chemo signals and if it weren't hypocritical of him he'd hate that kind of intrusion. She's calm, when she sits next to him, and takes his hand to stop the tapping, to stop that _infuriating_ rhythm from playing again and again and _again_ in his mind. The pain lifts, again, more and more forcefully; the taking of it stronger and somehow more powerful than before.

She slumps more than relaxes slowly, a calmness he's never seen on her features, and he wishes he could do this for eternity.

(they may have started out sleeping with him as the little spoon, but it's easier for him to take the pain when she's it. Which is annoying, because if it weren't for the whole pain taking thing, it would have been uncomfortable for the both of them)

"She's coming over." The coyote tells her boyfriend. "after berating me for not taking my stuff - and herself for not realising I hadn't." He smiles, slightly, and she smiles in return.

"She'll be here soon." He nods, and as one they decide to go downstairs to wait for her. They do, and they sit on the couch, and they wait.

* * *

There is a knock on the door - an impatient one, and Malia goes to open it. Stiles realises the pain is less than before; like when he'd taken it he'd _taken_ some of it, and she wasn't going to get it back. He wonders if she realises this.

(He doesn't much care. She's in less pain; that can only be a good thing.)

"Honestly." Lydia mutters, before entering the house and handing over the bags to Malia. "You really should-"

Malia turns the banshee around, and guides her over to the chair opposite. Confused, she sits down. "What is going on here?" She demands, and Malia simply sits down, without answering. She looks to Stiles, and he grimaces, shakes his head. She sighs, then turns to the other girl. "You've been looking for answers; I figured it was about time we gave you some."

Lydia freezes. "Well..." she says, cautiously. "Don't be too hasty, Malia." Malia frowned at Lydia. "Yes, because you having a secret spy network to keep up on the supernatural in school - and Stiles, is not hasty in any way."

Stiles raises an eyebrow, surprised, the corners of his mouth turning down in amusement. "Really?" He asks Lydia, and she grimaces, glares at Malia. "Possibly." She states primly. "It's not a _'spy network',_ however. Honestly." She shakes her head, and goes silent. Malia, glares in return. "It is. You bribe people to find information on things - and Stiles. It's a spy network; because you explicitly stated you wanted it secret."

Lydia frowned. "How much did you pay to know that?" "Didn't pay" Malia said, blithely. "Funny - throwing a guy bigger than you up against a wall with minimal effort - _faked_ minimal effort - seems to trigger their wish to talk. Odd, that."

Lydia glowered, again. She did not deign to reply.

Stiles refused to chuckle; he'd done so ever since _He'd_ done so. It made his friends flinch.

Malia sighed, frustrated. "Stiles." She said, then stood. "It'd be easier to show her." she finished; obviously, her patience had warn thin. He looked to Lydia, looked to Malia.

After a moment, he sighed as well; though his was one born of resignation. "Alright." He muttered, then stood. Malia's gaze was soft. "Sorry." She muttered. "Not your fault." He replied, instantaneously, perhaps harsher than he should have. To prove his point, he took her hand, and lifted them into full view. Malia had a tank-top on; so no sleeves, and therefore the veins were very visible on her arm.

Lydia sucked in a sharp, surprised breath, the noise loud in the quiet house.

Malia relaxed, her shoulders straightening, her posture less weighed down. He knew that when this happened he looked less tired, less drawn; his eyes slowly lost their bags and his features looked less... _ill,_ is the best way to describe them that he can think of currently. He was certainly less pale; he could see that happening with his own eyes.

The long and short of it; he looks more alive.

Lydia exhaled, slowly, and Stiles flinched and dropped Malia's hand.

 _That was fear._

Malia's eyes narrowed at the change in chemo signals; Lydia looked confused for a moment, before realisation dawned on her face and it immediately changed to guilt.

Stiles grimaced, felt the nerves in his system go haywire; felt the churning in his stomach.

(Guilt always made him feel nervous. It was the emotion that affected him the most, in others. Perhaps it was because it's the one he has the most understanding of. It comes with the territory. The territory, that is, of Guilt being the emotion he feels most often.)

Stiles shifts, the nerves making him tap that incessant rhythm onto the couch arm.

Malia does not stop him, this time.

It is a while before anyone speaks.

* * *

"I-" Lydia starts, but stops and doesn't continue for a few minutes.

"I'm - ... sorry." She finishes, half-hearted and belated but genuine all the same.

Malia flashes her eyes, but her "You'd better be." is just as half-hearted; they're all too emotionally rung out for it to be anything overly forceful on either behalf.

"You don't need to be." Is what Stiles says, because in his opinion, she doesn't. The last time she - well, she's never seen it herself, but she _must_ have heard of what it was used for. By _him._

( _By them.)_

 _(This morning you took it from Isaac, you took it from coach, from that dying deputy. Now... **give it to me.)**_

Malia punches him in the shoulder and glares. "No." She says, quietly, furiously. "You - that was not your fault. Stop it."

Stiles looks away. He can't take her genuine belief in that, not right now, not when he _scares_ his _friend._

 _Scares **Lydia.**_

Lydia breaths out, shakily. "She's right." She says, quietly, but whole-heartedly. "It - it wan't your fault, you know that."

He laughs, slightly, but it's hollow.

"Yeah? Tell that to -"

He cuts himself off.

"...To Allison?" Lydia finishes, flinching but still questioning.

He closes his eyes.

"To - yeah. To - to the countless people who died in the hospital. To - to - _hell,_ even to fucking Oliver, and he's - crazy. Literally crazy."

Malia sighs.

"I went to visit him, once." She admits, and he looks at her, surprised. "Really?" "Yeah." He frowns. "What did-?" "He didn't remember trying to kill me." She said, simply. "Thought it was some horrible nightmare. I let him. He did ask how you were though; if the outside world was happy to have you back."

Stiles laughed, mirthlessly. "And?" Her lips quirked upwards. Lydia stared, uncomprehendingly. "To be careful." She said, quieter and less light-hearted. "Asked if you were actually sleeping. You know, rather than staying up and taking contraband pills."

Stiles sighed. "I should probably visit, just to give him some closure, shouldn't I?"

Malia nodded. "Though I'd check if your dad actually signed you out, first. You left, sure, but was that ever made legal?"

Stiles blinked. "Oh. Actually, no, now that I think about it." Malia grimaced. "Then, yeah, I'd get that sorted. I'm - not gonna finish that sentence, actually."

"Don't want to jinx it?" he asked, slightly amused. "Yeah." she grimaced. "That would be bad."

"What is going on?" Lydia asked, less demanding and more worn out than anything.

"Eichen house." Malia explained. "Yeah. Old Echo House was - not fun; but we should probably tell Oliver I'm not dead." Stiles continued for her. Malia seemed to take pause. "I should probably do the same for Mandy, actually, thinking about it."

"Mandy Briarson?" Lydia asked, surprised.

(My, today is just full of surprises, isn't it?)

Malia blinked. "Uh - yeah. How'd you know her?" "She's a junior." Lydia explained "Bob - he told me about her."

Stiles laughed. " _Bob?"_

Lydia had the decency to blush, ever so slightly. "Well, I had to call him something."

Malia shook her head. "Right. Anyway - today was for questions."

The room somehow grew colder; the emotions less light and more dark.

Everyone seemed sligtly more subdued. "Right." Stiles muttered. "What do you wanna know?"

Lydia seemed to take pause. She started her questions shortly thereafter.

"What... things, got left over, and what could you already do?"

Stiles grimaced. "That's a difficult one." She nodded, and seemed content to wait for him.

"Okay." He started. "So - pain-drain thing. That got... left over. Emotions. Also left over, I think. Strength, occasionally. But mountain ash was before, so."

Malia glared. "So was the occasional strength thing. And the uncanny intuition. That too."

"I got tonnes of stuff wrong," Stiles said dismissively. "And what are you talking about; the strength thing? That's new." "No it ain't." She frowned. "I've - been - looking." She told him, haltingly. "Also; you all need to remember to delete camera footage; so many incriminating things on those CCTV cams. It's pretty bad."

Stiles grimaced. "Yeah; you-" He paused.

 _Camera footage._

He balked. "Which ones?" He demanded, and calmly, she replied. "Literally all of them. School, Sheriff's department..." She trailed off.

"The hospital." He breathed, and slumped, a little fearful.

"Why have I not been arrested yet?" He demanded. "If all that's there - surely?"

"Melissa saved and copied, then deleted, all the hospital footage." She explained. "School stuff - it isn't really watched; just copied and filed away at the end of each day, before being erased off of the main computers. The Sheriff's Department - well, that's your dad. He'd keep you and your friends safe, and besides the only stuff that ever got recored was when the person didn't bother turning the cameras off, like Matt did."

Stiles relaxed. He breathed, in, out. "Okay. Okay." He nodded. "What did you find, then?" he asked, prompting her to continue. "I've looked," she started, "At all the stuff from the start of junior year and onwards. So - like, for example; the night when you all got trapped inside the school with - that big-" here she grimaced -" Mutated werewolf thing."

"Peter Hale." Lydia muttered, then paused. "Hey -where has he been, anyway?" Stiles shrugged. "Hell if I know. Continue, please." Malia nodded.

"Right. Ehrm, another time - also at school, actually - you held up a paralysed Alpha - I'm guessing Derek Hale - from drowning in a swimming pool for two hours. _Two whole freaking hours._ Lydia" here, she turned to address the other girl. "You're the physics genius; maths, whatever - is that possible?"

Lydia grimaced. "Without having to explain a bunch of stuff? No, it isn't. A few minutes, maximum, if he had training. Clothes drag you down, too. So, a - wait, how old was he again? Hmm, let's say twenty-three - twenty-three year old man with a large muscle mass who is paralysed and therefore unable to help keep himself afloat, being held up by a sixteen year old with supposedly less than great muscle mass, whilst they are both fully clothed? Pretty much gonna die within seconds. Possibly minutes, if the teen is trained for that sort of problem."

Malia gestured towards Lydia, having had her point proven. "See?"

Stiles grimaced. "Nope."

"Once, twice, thrice." Lydia blurted. He blinked at her, but she ignored him in favour of Malia. "You need to give at least three examples for him to believe you."

Malia grunted in annoyance. "He broke a baseball bat - wooden - over the head of an alpha werewolf. Well, two, they joined into one." she grimaced. "That was gross."

Lydia's eyes widened. "No wonder they didn't like you." She blinked. "But yeah - again, impossible. You'd have broken your hands hitting them over the head with all your might. Those bats are scarily durable. You could wack it against a brick wall and all you'd get for your trouble would be very painful hands."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Don't be ridiculous." She glared at him, and he winced. "Are you saying I don't know what I'm talking about?" "No!" He protested. She looked triumphant. "Then you must believe me when I say - those things? They are _impossible._ Unless, of course, you have extra strength. In which case..." Lydia trailed off, her point having been made.

Malia grinned at the back up. "Thanks Lydia. But - see?" Malia gestured at him. "Coincidences." Stiles protested. Malia growled slightly, eyes flashing. "For such a smart person, you sure can be an idiot."

He folded his arms. "Nope."

"This may seem stupid." Malia sighed. "But he pulled down a vending machine at the hospital - shook it easily, as if it weighed nothing, and pulled it over."

Lydia sighed. "Possible with human strength; but-" and here, she grinned. "Not the amount he supposedly has. Those things are _heavy._ A bunch of the weightlifters at school tried to do that to impress me, and none of them managed to pull it over. An adult bodybuilder - who was basically a giant - did so with ever so slight effort. It was to embarrass them, I think - so that they wouldn't do it again, but it proves our point."

Stiles grumbled, and sank down into the couch.

Lydia blinked. "What's his musculature?" She asked Malia, and Malia grimaced. "You'd have an easier time asking the lacrosse boys. I don't know."

Lydia looked miffed. "Seriously, Stiles?" He looked away. "Uh - yeah. And why would you want to know, anyway?"

"To prove my point." She answered, shortly. "If it's around the same as the wolves or not."

"That doesn't prove anything!" He protested.

She scoffed. "Never mind." She turned to Malia, ignoring Stiles, and started speaking as if he wasn't there.

"If you ever do convince him that he's not inferior to his wolf friend, and wolf acquaintances, physicality-wise, do tell me. We might be able to prove our point."

And with that, Lydia left the room, left the house. The door clicked shut behind her.

He kept his gaze anywhere other than Malia.

"That was not what tonight was for." He said, finally and she huffed. "Wasn't it?"

He didn't deign to answer her.

(It was a rhetorical question, anyway.)

* * *

The sun came up, and as many a morning before Malia turned around, kissed him good morning, told him she'd come back for a lift to school, and left through his open window.

Stiles sighed, mulled over his dream until the last vestiges of the nightmare were gone, and then dragged himself out of bed.

He got ready, then went downstairs. With a bad feeling in his gut, he took the police radio with him.

(Just in case. His gut was in knots; that nagging feeling prevalent and sickening.)

His dad was in the living room, fast asleep on the couch, police documents ( _for certain eyes only, and not yours, Stiles)_ scattered haphazardly on the table.

Guilt gnawing at his insides, he took the documents and went upstairs, then copied them. Went back downstairs, and placed them exactly how they'd been originally, so his dad would be none the wiser. (You'd think, by now, that'd he'd know better. Stiles knows that that shouldn't be his thought - but honestly, he'd been reading his father's work documents since long before all the supernatural shit. So, yes, you'd think the Sheriff would know better.)

(Know his son better.)

Stiles looked at his dad, and sighed. He went into the kitchen, and made breakfast; the healthy sort, but decided one piece of bacon wasn't going to kill his dad, so he put that on his father's plate. Took it into the living room, and handed it over to his now awake parent.

The Sheriff took it, silently, and ate. Stiles went back into the kitchen.

(He put his leftovers - which was all of it - into the fridge. He grabbed a drink - water, nothing overly anything really - and took his adderal (more than recommended) and his Xanex reluctantly (and therefore less than recommended). He took a swig of the water, felt it go down his throat and through his esophagus, but felt no relief, no quenching of thirst.

(It's hard to feel that when you don't feel thirsty in the first place. He didn't eat simply because he didn't (ever) feel hungry.)

(Not in the food sense of the word, anyway.)

(He hates the other sense.)

(This body is a copy; a shell. He knows this, has always known this. He thinks when he copied his old body he was so focused on not keeping the FTD that he wasn't focused enough on keeping it wholly - wholly not the - not _Him.)_

Stiles sighed. He put the bottle back - half full, one drink each day's morning - and left the room.

"Not eating?" His dad asked, concern leaking from him freely, genuine worry pouring forth. Stiles swallowed the bile that threatened to come out. "I did." He lied easily, and for a moment he heard his heart.

 _Thump, thump. Thump-thump. Thump, thump. Thump-Thump._

 _Steady._

(It was steady.)

The Sheriff relaxed, believing Stiles, and with a sharp inward jolt Stiles realised he hadn't even sounded to himself like he was lying. He knew he was, obviously, but the tells he'd always had - the ones his dad always picked up on, the ones he'd never missed no matter the level of lie - just weren't there anymore.

Stiles bolted.

* * *

 _Where is he?_

Malia was standing on the corner of Stiles' street - the place they'd both agreed upon for her to be picked up at.

Stiles was running late. This meant one of two things; either he'd forgotten, which was unlikely, or he'd gotten in his car and _ran._

That was worryingly more likely. Malia sprinted to the Stilinskis' house.

"Sheriff!" She called out, getting there just as the man in question was opening his car door, in a rush.

"Malia." he said, surprised. It went, before he gestured her over. "Where are you going?" She demanded. "Stiles bolted." he sighed. He slumped. "You'll -find him easier than I will..."

There was a pause. The _and he'll listen to you,_ went unsaid. She viciously thinks it Karma for all the times he didn't listen to Stiles.

(The ones she's seen in the CCTV cams.)

(She doesn't really care about his side of things. Stiles, he's the one that matters to her.)

Dutifully, because Stiles would want her to, she says "He would listen to you too, you know," even if he's unsure.

Because Stiles would, in fact, listen to him, even if the Sheriff doesn't believe that.

Malia catches Stiles' scent, interprets the chemo signals and balks. "I've got to go." she says, rushed, and _sprints,_ as fast as her coyote side will let her.

* * *

It's a lot easier to find the Nemeton than Stiles thought it would be.

You know, considering that wasn't even his destination. In truth, he hadn't had one, he'd just been driving but - poof. One thought of the nemeton, and he's slamming the breaks because he's just driven into that very stump's clearing.

He frowns at it, but gets out of his car despite the nagging feeling in his gut, despite his instincts to _run._

Because there's also that annoying instinct telling him that this is _fine,_ that the old, very evil and annoying stump _means no harm._

He thinks _liar,_ but goes towards it anyway.

He sits on it, and feels stupid, but then instantly doesn't because the place bleeds into that shared mindspace he'd had with Scott and - and -

Her. Scott and Allison.

(That was the first time he'd said that in almost five weeks. Her name brings pain, guilt, sorrow. He never likes to say it. Not even think it inside his own head.)

The place seems strangely familiar, besides the shared headspace of it all (he can't figure out what to call it - headspace, mindspace, it makes no difference). He thinks maybe he's been here before; all his life and yet never once.

Which is ridiculous, because he's been here _once_ , and _only once._ Not all his life, or never, ever.

He looks around, and on one of the columns, he sees a shut door. Padlocked, and barricaded, chained and barred, it seems almost overtly closed.

He knows why. _Nothing,_ and he means _nothing,_ is _ever_ getting inside his head.

 _Never, ever again._

Wait. Inside _his_ head?

He looks down, and the board is still there, the pieces still scattered about the stump's surface and the floor surrounding it. He's still wearing the clothes he'd worn then; the plaid shirt and t-shirt and jeans.

When he stands, they morph to jeans, white sneakers and the hoodie he'd given Malia because he'd never wanted to see it again, ever, on his person.

He looks around. There's nothing there.

Stiles turns, slowly, and sees another door. This door, of course, is ajar, and is labelled _memories._

He figures if he shut that he'd forget everything, so he's good with it being open. It's not wide open, and he figures that that's normal. Nobody remembers everything _exactly,_ down to the very last detail; it's most likely because the door is mostly closed.

His gut is telling him to both open it more and stay away from it, at the same time. He's never said he makes good, spur of the moment decisions, and in keeping with that he goes towards the door. He sees a latch that he hadn't seen from the stump and frowns, because his gut is _screaming_ that that shouldn't be there, but his mind is telling him he'd hate to know the memories that's holding back.

He unlatches the door, and slams it open, fully open and - and -

Stiles steps through.

* * *

Malia was never the best at tracking, ever since she became human again thanks to Scott and Stiles (she both blames and doesn't blame them; she knows now that they thought they were helping her.) but she's determined to find her boyfriend without the interference of the other pack members.

So she runs. Luckily, he's in the preserve; she knows that place like the back of her hand.

She knows where the old stump is too. She figures that's where he's at, but she's not sure why she knows that. It doesn't matter; she needs to find him.

So she does. She runs through the preserve, crashing through branches, stomping through the underbrush, leaping over gaps she hadn't been able to as a coyote, and gets why it's better to be human with supernatural powers than an animal any day. Aside from the whole horrible guilt and terrrifying emotions thing, it's so much better; she feels much more powerful.

Let anything try to hunt her now; let traps try to keep her down.

So she runs. And she finds him.

His jeep, Roscoe, is parked nearby, and she quickly turns off the engine, and closes the door without locking it. She pockets the keys, although she's unsure why, exactly.

She just does, and that's the end of that, as far as she's concerned.

She sees him, staring off into the distance, pale and dark-eyed (purple; like he'd been punched, the irises a darker brown than the whiskey they usually were), lips chapped and generally not looking so good. She sits down next to him, and he takes her hand. They both relax, and she knows he's about as aware of this as any person who's sleeping would be, so she sits there, and waits.

(His grip tightens, as if daring her to leave him. She would never.)

* * *

Stiles remembers.

It's not easy, and there's a lot to sort out, but he _remembers,_ oh _god, does he **remember.**_

His mother was great, the first few years, she was. He knows this.

The last two - they were...

Not great. If he were anyone else, he'd call them horrific.

( _He's trying to kill me? Don't be **silly.** He **is** killing me.)_

Sadly, he thinks, through the rush of old memories and ones he'd forgotten - mostly, ones he'd forgotten - her being vocally angry was a good day.

He doesn't want to think about that, so he doesn't.

The memories rush through the years as fast as anything, too fast to comprehend.

Once it's over, he feels their weight like a physical thing, and he now knows more than he's ever known previously.

(He thought he'd remembered everything he'd done, when _he'd_ been around. He was wrong.)

(Now? He remembered _everything._ One thousand years worth of _everything._ He didn't feel any older, or any different. He just remembered everything. Including all the memories of the hosts _it'd_ had.

So. Lots of lives across a thousand years. Stiles isn't so sure his brain can handle all that information, but he had chosen to remember, hadn't he?)

Stiles falls backwards. The white hall is there, and so is Malia.

He looks at her, sleeping, and after a moment taps her on the shoulder. She opens her eyes, and for a moment panics. He throws a wave of calmness at her, and she instantly relaxes.

They sit up, across from each other, the Go board off to one side. She glances at the chess board, blinks and its Go again. She looks away.

She sees the wide open memories door, the overly closed door in and out of this place and frowns.

"If the door is locked on this side..." she starts. "How are we gonna get out?"

Stiles panics.

* * *

Scott is worried.

Yes, Scott is usually worried, but hear him out.

Because this is serious.

Stiles and Malia are missing.

This, of course, wouldn't be so bad, if he could actually find their scents _anywhere._ But he can't. Not at Stiles' house, not at Malia's not anywhere.

And the jeeps gone too - so either they took it, and ran, or something else happened. Stiles' dad is to preoccupied with trying to find his son and figure out if it's supernatural or not (and so therefore if he can put out an APB or not) to tell Scott much of anything.

And so the pack is simply wandering throughout the preserve, and they can't use their powers because Parrish demanded he come along.

Because it's not _safe_ for them to go into the preserve at night, when they all know two teens are missing.

(If only he knew. Maybe he'd be more lenient.)

(Or maybe he'd be idiotic and demand they have therapy.)

(Scott's not sure.)

And so they search as one group rather than split up, with Parrish tagging along like some sort of guard dog.

(Scott finds it almost amusing. Or he would, if his friends weren't missing.)

(They can handle themselves, thank you very much. The pang he feels at the reminder of who said that the most hurts more than anything, but he pushes it aside. They have work to do.)

"I think I know where they are." Lydia pipes up.

Scott looks at her. "Where?" He asks, urgently. "I think you know too."

Scott stops, sighs, and gives up.

He sits on a nearby log. Liam looks at him confusedly, Kira sympathetically, and Lydia annoyed. "We can find it." She states, but he replies "Not if it doesn't want to be found."

She gives up as well. Sits next to him.

Liam and Parrish's confusion grows, and Kira sits on his other side.

She holds his hand, and he feels comfort from that.

"What are you looking for?" Parrish asks. None of them reply.

"I'd like to know, guys." Liam pipes up, and his eagerness is quickly squashed by some unseen thing, because he sits next to kira on the last bit of available space.

Parrish frowns at them, but sits on a stump across from them. It's not the most comfortable stump, it looks like, but he sits on it regardless.

They all sit there. Lydia gets up. "Come on, Jordan." she mutters. "I'm not giving up this easy."

And she walks. Parrish looks at them, before following.

(He doesn't want anyone to be alone in the woods at night. Scott wonders why he seems to be the only non-supernatural, who also doesn't know about it, that has an inkling that that would be unsafe.)

They sit there, for a moment, before Scott sighs. He gets up, and they all get up, and Scott follows Lydia's scent.

They'll find Stiles and Malia, they have to.

* * *

Malia is trying to break through the metal chains locking the door, and Stiles isn't caring that anything could get in when they break this.

 _They need to get out._

Stiles isn't sure where he got a sledgehammer, but it's useful so he's not gonna question it. He's already broken through the majority of the wooden barricade, and now he's onto the wood bars blocking the door.

He's halfway through once Malia finally breaks the chain and it falls off the door. She's now onto the padlock; though this time one easy hit is all that's required to break it. She pulls it off, and he breaks the last of the boards. They look at their handiwork, the door now clear of all obstacles, and Stiles feels fear.

 _Don't let them in._

She takes his hand and he calms, though his nerves spike when she goes to open the door.

It's locked. He feels bad that that calms him down.

She steps back, and Stiles realises Malia wants him to try. He places a hand on the door, much like he did when he went to open the door in Echo House - Eichen, Eichen House ( _he's not an inmate don't call it that-)_ and placed his hand on the knob. He turns it, and it _clicks,_ and suddenly he's hit by this wave of something, and Malia grabs onto him as they fall back-

He wakes shouting.

* * *

Scott stills.

He hears shouting.

Liam does too he thinks, because they look to each other before Scott _sprints_ as fast as he can towards the noise. They pass Parrish and Lydia - one looks confused, as if he's listening to something, and Lydia looks afraid, as if _she's_ listening to something he doesn't want her to be listening to, not _now,_ not _ever -_

He runs. He gets there in record time.

Malia is growling at him, eyes electric blue. Stiles is - he's not sure. Scott can't really see him right now.

Though, to be fair, he is fighting a half-feral Malia. That might be why he's not got the time to-

Malia's wrenched away from him, and he stares in disbelief as _Stiles,_ human, not very strong _Stiles_ holds her back, almost wrestles her as he stares down at her face, his expression a dark one.

(The shadows cast on their faces seem almost too perfect. Stiles' face is half cast in shadow, and from this perspective he can't see Malia's face at all; though if he were able to, she'd be perfectly visible.)

"What did I teach you?" Stiles demands. She looks at him, bows her head. Her shift recedes, and Scott knows now what her - _who,_ her anchor is.

She doesn't reply, and Stiles then notices Scott.

He stares. Scott stares back.

A blink, a moment later, and Stiles is - gone.

"Crap." Malia mutters, stares at where he was. She looks to Scott, apologetic, and bolts after him.

Scott looks down at the healing claw marks on his arm. He looks up, and Malia's gone.

(Their scents are gone too.)

(They're fucked if they wanted to find the two of them. Scott thinks now, that they don't want to be found.)

The others enter the clearing just as the marks on Scott's arm finish healing. Lydia looks pale.

"I was going to scream for you." She said, too calm, too reserved. "It was only a possibility - you dying after it; I've screamed for others without them dying previously - but I was. I didn't, though."

Small mercies, Scott thinks. Parrish is still there, more confused than ever.

"What - what is going on in this town?" He demands. Scott shares a glance with Lydia.

(Too many people are having to be told, lately. He thinks... no, he _knows_ that this will come back to bite them in the ass later on.)

So they tell him. He nods, and doesn't think them crazy.

(After tonight, why would he?)


	7. Before It's Too Late

**_Summary:_ **

**Scott sees him, sees him in the dark shadows of the night -**

 **And Stiles bolts. Again.**

 **(Malia, of course, follows.) Notes: I'll never leave this series behind, I swear.**

 **(Just as these guys will never in this series. haha oops)**

* * *

Malia can't scent him, he knows.

He can't smell her either, but then his sense of smell is not that of a puny, useless human so he ignores it in favour of =

 _Emotions._

He's not - not - _powered, fuel-ed_ up enough to sense all emotions, but he can focus, and he can tell where she is (around about) from feeling for hers, and that - that's enough.

And he runs. He knows she's tracking him via sound, via the mess he's making of the forest but Stiles?

He doesn't much care, to be honest.

When he breaks through into the next clearing he does not expect to be at the entrance to the Nemeton root cellar.

It's fitting. He hates that about it. Even so, Stiles lowers himself into the precarious basement, and is surprised to see that his bat - his wonderful, aluminium bat - is still there, still as good as (slightly dented) new as it was when he'd put it there. The roof seems to be holding up nicely, he thinks, and ventures down into the depths.

The first thing he focuses on (aside from his bat, which he will be retrieving later, somehow) is the roots of the Nemeton.

Obviously.

Also, there's a jar there. It's cracked, and it looks old. It must have shattered during the storm Ms. Blake caused. (It's weird to think of her as that, but Stiles never learned her actual name - and she was a teacher, so.)

He sighs, and leans back into the roots. It's weirdly comforting.

 _Nice evil tree stump_ he thinks, warily, as he pats the roots. _Try not to kill me please._

Stiles is weirded out by this whole situation. He violently disapproves, but fuck it; what else is he gonna do now, go home?

Definitely not. So he sits. In the roots of the evil tree. Which are surprisingly comfy.

Stiles decides to focus on other things, and picks up the jar.

A part of him recognises it.

He knows now, of course, that thousands of years of lives of memories are all stored in his head somewhere - but for the life of him, he'll never be able to sort that shit out, will he? Stiles is pretty certain human brains can't handle that much information, since they seem to be built pretty shoddily, considering.

Well. At least his, anyway. FTD; not pleasant. But again, adds points as to why he won't be able to remember jack shit about the earlier lives.

But this jar? This, now this is relatively recent.

He frowns.

Fifty years. The - He - They - _It_ spent fifty of it's one thousand years in this jar. Jennifer Blake - she set it free accidentally in her madness, and it flew away, and found -  
Stiles blinked. He'd not been possessed during the ice bath, but rather because he was the closest unconscious being that was at the very least human that it could find.

And wasn't a werewolf. Obviously.

Stiles turned the jar over in his hands. The crack was big enough - more of a hole, really - for a fly to leave through.

Stiles glares at the breakable jar. Seriously, Noshiko?

He throws the offending object across the room and it _shatters,_ and the content he can sense isn't his relief.

He freezes.

The tree is thinking again. Stiles despises this whole incident, violently and overtly so.

It laughs; or something equivalent to such and Stiles never though a tree could live but hell, this is his life now, living trees is nothing.

Well. It is when it's this tree, the fucker, Stiles amends.

The roots shift slightly, and he feels himself sinking deeper.

 _Sleep, stiles._ It croons, and he's still utterly tense. _Nope, fucker. I'm not some sacrifice._

 _Oh, but you were..._ It whispers, tendrils of thought making his brain feel heavy.

 _And such a powerful one, as well... fitting more than one category is an accomplishment, Stiles._

Stiles pauses.

Again, it laughs. _What is a Stiles?_ It muses. _It is a you, it seems. our little banshee girl is looking for you, young one. So is the Alpha, and the Runt... though I suppose it is his Second, now - not you. Since, after all, you are not a wolf._

If a tree could smile, you bet your ass this one would be grinning. Stiles is sure of it.

 _Are you not?_

A flash of memory. Scott biting into the arm of his doppelganger, the pain he'd felt without really taking note, him fainting...

Stiles blinks.

The roots are further into the earth, now, he knows.

For some reason, he doesn't much care. But yet -

 _And the coyote-girl. She lived with us for years, young one. One of the forest, the were-girl could blend as any animal. No-one would suspect her humanity - and yet, you insisted. Why is that?_

 _We wonder if you were trying to make up for crimes you didn't ever truly want to commit, but your body did so anyway. It seems likely; she is of your spirit, broken and lost as you are._

 _Were-girl,_ Stiles wonders.

 _Were-girl; were-coyote. She's half and half, more one than the other but always a different one and never at a different time._

Stiles tries to process that, but he's too tired.

 _Screw you._ He thinks instead, as the roots drag him deeper. He's well and truly stuck now, he knows, but he feels too - far, far too... calm.

Yeah. Calm.

Stiles has Anxiety. ADHD. Possible PTSD, definite paranoia.

Stiles never feels _calm._ It's a foreign emotion, to him.

 _Malia,_ he thinks, instead of sleeping. That seems like a bad idea.

 _Yes. The girl in coyote skin; More Bad Than Good, the banshee girl said - and wouldn't you know it, the coyote in girl skin thought so too. But she was guilty, and scared, and the chemo signals you gave off felt so much like hers she couldn't handle it._

 _Also she wanted to be a coyote, and fully believed you deserved to be punched. It is what it is._

Stiles is having a hard time thinking of this voice as a tree, to be honest. He wonders where Malia is now, at any rate.

 _Sleep, Stiles,_ the Nemeton soothes. _Our little sacrifice... yes. Sleep... we have power we need to give, for the ritual was finished and the target for it was killed before we could transfer what She asked for..._

 _You will get a different present, yes. The girl will as well... smaller though it may be._

* * *

Malia runs. She listens, and she follows, and she _runs._

Stiles can sense her emotions, and he's always just that little bit too far for her to catch anything more than a glimpse, but it's enough to follow and it's not like he's being stealthy.

She finally follows him into a clearing. Falling into a hole is not what she expected to do, and of course _ow,_ but the time for such things is not now, _get yourself together Malia Stiles is_ _ **running**_ **-**

And she also has no clue where she is or how to get out, because the hole has actually got a grate in it, natural and made of wood.

Great. Perfect, even.

She looks around. The small space she's in has a low roof - it's being held up by an... aluminium baseball bat, of all things. There are roots on one side of the room, and as they're the only even slightly interesting thing in this place she goes over to them despite her better judgement.

It may be curiosity, but she's not a cat. So she should be fine.

There's another hole. She's knocked down into it by some unseen force.

She doesn't hit the bottom so much as float down gently, and she realises this only happens most likely because there's also another person here.

It's Stiles, obviously, because he's the one out of the two of them to be here first, and she'd know him anywhere, so that's fine.

Also his scent is back. Which is good.

Tracking scentless people is _hard._ At least he's not lacking the ability to make sound.

That would be bad.

Malia sighs, the puff of air blowing strands of hair away from her face.

Lying on her front was only comfortable as a coyote, she decides, and then manoeuvres them into a more comfortable position.

She sighs, more content, and grabs onto his hands with each of her own.

Much better.

Since she has nothing else to do, and her pain is gone (for now) Malia decides sleep is probably the best course of action.

And so she does. Sleep, that is.

* * *

Stiles isn't really sure of what's gone on, for the last - good while, actually.

He just knows he's in some - dark place with Malia, and there's a voice whispering in his head that he's just plain ignor-

Oh. Wait. No, now he remembers.

 _Fucking tree._

The mirth he feels from the _fucking tree_ is real, that's for sure, and Stiles is pretty certain they're fucked.

He grumbles to himself, because _fucking evil tree stumps, dude_ and wakes Malia in the process.

They look at each other, sigh, and try to sit up.

They then realise they're in a rather confining cocoon of roots, and damn. That's not good.

Stiles sighs, and glares at nowhere in particular. everything around them is what he's glaring at anyway.

Malia chuckles, slightly. They meet eyes, and Stiles can't help the amused downward pull of his mouth.

"Goddamn evil tree stumps." He murmurs at her, and her beautiful eyes light up, the warm frothy mirth spilling forth. He grins, easily and so does she.

With another sigh, he looks around. This is not the most comfortable of - well, he's lying, it's actually really comfy, but still. They need to -

And oh, would you look at that, the cocoon is a lift, that's actually really nice of the evil tree. Bravo, or Brava, or whatever.

 _We aren't evil, Stiles._ It tries to convince him. _We were murdered, you know, and we're seeking revenge. It is not a question of good or evil, rather justice or injustice._

 _And you forget, but it is our nature. We cannot help being such._

The two of them are back in the cellar.

 _We hope you visit us again, dear Sacrifice._ It murmurs into his brain, the tendrils taking root more firmly than before.

 _And we hope you and your coyote like the gifts we gave you._

Before he can ask, the two of them are catapulted out of the cocoon, and land in a what should be painful but isn't actually tumble of limbs at the other end of the room. Stiles sighs, and grabs the baseball bat. It moves with ease, and the roof does not fall even slightly.

Malia raises an eyebrow. "It's mine. I'll tell you the story later." He says, and she nods.

Before they go, she grabs onto his hand.

The veins pass between them, black as always and vile as ever - yet somehow Stiles doesn't feel like shit about using it.

And strangely, Malia seemed to be able to feel something, or something, because she frowned in surprised.

Malia shakes herself. Now is not the time.

"We'll have to tell them all now." She says, because this - it's all so much bigger than they thought it was.

Stiles' face is cast in shadow, and even with her eyes she cannot read his expression.

"Yeah." He says, finally. It was with the tone he'd used when he'd been certain she wouldn't like him after he explained what was going on back in Echo - Eichen House.

(Only the inmates use Echo. It's - she isn't one. Anymore.)

Stiles squeezes her hand and lets go. She feels... lighter, somehow, than she has for a long while.

Malia sighs. She shrugs, and deems it unimportant right at that moment.

Because their friends were waiting, she knew they were.

And it was time they all got some answers.


	8. An Intervention

_**Summary:**_

 **Actual plot happens, and shit really is found out. Notes: I'm back! Shorter break than I thought, but still. I'll be gone again for a little while in a little bit, but I'm trying to get out at least one chapter for a few things (in this case, at least one -shot for this series.)**  
 **Hope you like it and sorry for the wait. the other will be deleted most likely.**

 **(See the end of the work for more notes.)**

* * *

Stiles frowned up at his house. The lights were on, but as per usual he knew his dad wasn't home.

(The Sheriff was likely pulling an overnight at the station; Stiles would normally worry about the food he was eating if it wasn't for the fact that right now he has other things on his mind, thank you very much, and one greasy burger wasn't going to kill his old man.)

(No matter how much it made him internally freak out, but that was the anxiety talking again.)

(And thantophobia. Stiles is fully aware of his flaws; it's a thing.)

Malia squeezes his hand, and he glances over. From the look on her face, she's as aware of the guests in the living room as he is - and its likely she can smell their emotions, too. Though that's always more guesswork than his empathy.

Stiles squeezes back, and brief black lines are pulled through her veins and up his arm, stark and contrasting and brutally obvious.

(He feels a little better, though, and she looks it. Usually, he'd feel bad about using it. But he doesn't. Maybe the tree isn't so evil after all.)

(He's also not usually able to control it. But now he is, and that's good. That's a good thing, that right there.)

She looks at him, as if to say, ' _should we go in?';_ as if to give him an out - they could run, flee, get in his jeep and stay away for a while, just the two of them.

(He knows there's not much holding her here. It probably should be bad that Stiles is glad he's the only reason... but is it so wrong to want something, someone, that's just for him; that's on his side, forever and always?)

(Stiles doesn't think so. Again, the guilt he'd usually feel at that is... absent. He briefly wonders if the tree got rid of that complex, but dismisses it. The Nogitsune and his mother wouldn't weight so heavily on his mind still if it did.)

Malia cocks her head; inclines it, and she conveys her acceptance of Stiles' decision.

This is his problem, what's happening. His life that's being royally screwed with right now, and his closest friends that are inside the house. His brother in all but blood, the strawberry blonde genius whose become a great friend of his over the months. The girlfriend of his best friend, and the IED runt - ehm; Liam. He's not sure what to make of the kid quite yet. And it's kind of sad that he's only got two friends, wow that's depressing.

She squeezes his hand, and the veins blacken for a moment; offering strength and comfort, reinforcing his understanding that she'll be there for him, no matter what.

(Malia figures he has a problem with getting that. She asked Morrell, once, what it was when you didn't believe people wouldn't leave. Morrell's expression didn't change, but she did reprimand Malia for the double negative. Then she told the coyote-girl that Stiles' problems were his own, and he'd tell her when he found them out himself. Eichen house wasn't great, but at least she'd gotten a free psychiatrist from it.)

(She still didn't know what it was. The thing with people leaving. Malia really just didn't want Stiles to look so surprised whenever she was on his side.)

Stiles nods, and they walk up to the front porch. He lets go of her hand as Scott opens the door, and Stiles knows this to be an intervention. It's not that hard to realise, really. You'd actually have to be stupidly oblivious to miss that, in his opinion.

Scott stands aside. Stiles grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes; They're wary, the two of them, and with good reason.

"You're back." Scott smiles, happy his friends aren't in danger. Because, in truth, that's what matters here. At least, to him.

(He still needs to know what's going on, though. A pack shouldn't keep secrets from each other, not if it's going to work. And, in part - his wolf wants to know how useful his friend is as a pack member, as much as Scott hates to admit that. He'd accept his friend regardless; they've known each other for years... but still. His wolf wants to protect his territory and his pack, and Scott recognises the necessity of this... meeting.)

"Nice set up." Stiles comments, brushing past Scott and entering the living room. "Might figure this to be an interrogation." He adds, glancing at the two chairs pushed opposite the couch and armchair. Stiles knows to sit on the dining chairs but he's feeling abrasive for some reason, so he doesn't. He doesn't know _why,_ and he doesn't particularly want to.

(If there's one thing Stiles will admit, it's that he ignores anything and everything regarding himself.)

Malia does the same - sits on the arm of the armchair, ready to stand and bolt if needed, one hand semi-discretely on his bicep.

(ready to cling and drag and carry if necessary.)

Stiles places a hand over hers and smiles, comforting and reassuring, and she relaxes slightly.

 _'They're friends, Mal.'_ He tries to convey. _'Nothing's gonna happen, really.'_

(This whole thing has put a wedge in his plans to assimilate Malia into the pack. But coyotes and wolves don't get along, according to legend - and he worries that that's the case in reality.)

(He just want's her to be happy. To have friends and, to quote Scott, a semi-normal life. Is that so much to ask?)

(After all she's been through... Malia deserves it more than most.)

Stiles squeezes her hand, and drops his. The others enter the room from various places around the house - Lydia comes down the stairs, Kira and Liam enter from the kitchen. Scott was already behind them; he's sat on the couch to their left. But the armchair is a strategic position, Stiles knows, and he's not giving that up quite yet.

(He's a fan of ignoring his problems until they go away. This, is directly opposing that wish. It's annoying.)

Liam takes his place on one of the dining chairs, as does Lydia (though her with obvious distaste - she'd prefer comfort, of course, Stiles knows that.) and Kira drops herself down next to Scotty on the couch.

Lydia smiles sweetly. "Shall we?" She says, and Stiles mentally holds back any reaction, just looks on as if slightly confused but mostly just bored.

"Dude, I still don't know what all this is about." Stiles says frankly, addressing Scott.

This is a lie, of course. He and Malia had a nice romp in the woods for a bit, and Mal nearly murderized Scotty, which... wasn't good, of course not, but you know.

She didn't. So all's well that ends well, as far as he's concerned. And she won't do it again, regardless. They've seen to that, she's got a hold of things now. He's still a bit iffy on who or what is her anchor, but that doesn't matter because he can bring her down from it anyway so it's fine.

And that was an isolated incident, anyway. She's got control at all other times... that tree just messes with everything.

Scott sighs, frowns. Stiles raised an eyebrow for a second - more of a quirk, really - questioning. Scott relents, of course he does. At least Stiles can trust Scott to be straight up about this. Probably.

"What happened in the woods?" He says. "You ran off and we couldn't track either of you."

Stiles blinked. He, for a second, glanced at Malia, but she was just as surprised at that as he was.

(Stiles and her knew he couldn't be tracked, but the fact that Malia wasn't track-able either is... odd. And very much news to them.)

"Really now?" Stiles asks, curious. "oh... kay, then."

"Wait - you didn't know?" Liam asks, out of turn, and Stiles looks at him.

"Oh, I'm well aware I wasn't. But - Malia's news." He says to the beta. Liam looks - well, Stiles thinks he's confused, and that would make sense, but the kid's probably just thinking.

It's the same kind of expression Scott gets when he's thinking. Bless the dude, but he generally tends to look confused - which is good, because people underestimate his friend's intelligence, but bad because people tend not to take the Teen Wolf seriously. Stiles would know - he's made that mistake once, which was pretty rude, actually. Mentally, Stiles winces. He knows his friend better now, of course, but he didn't then.

(That was a long time ago. Or, at least, it seems like it. Ninth grade was a difficult time for beacon hills, however, and Stiles doesn't like to think about it.)

(None of them do. Not Malia, because that was when the car crash happened. Not him, because that was - incredibly close to his mother's death, not Scott, because his dad was a jackass worse than Jackson (but not quite as bad as Mr. Lahey - No-one's on his level of evil) and Jackson, as much as he despises thinking of the jackass, because that was the year he found out about his adoption. Really, the Beacon Hills originals (sort of, but Scott might as well be one so it doesn't matter) had a shit time of it if he's being honest with himself.)

(Ha. Him, being honest. What are the odds.)

Malia clears her throat, and he blinks. Lydia rolls her eyes, and repeats her command. "Show them." She says. "Malia's been explaining what she knows while you spaced out-" Stiles winces mentally- "And I already know, but they don't and definitely need proof."

Lydia nearly always gets what she wants, and this is no exception. Stiles removes Malia's hand from his bicep, and holds their clasped hands up. Seconds later, black veins start spreading - Malia's darken, and travel down, and the blackness transfers over to him - his veins standing out in stark contrast to his fair skin.

Malia relaxes, he knows - and he knows he's looks better. But no-ones' a steady supply of pain, not really, and stiles turns it off before it stops being pain he's taking.

The veins die down on Malia's arm. He watches as his travel up his sleeve and disappear, the black lines flattening back down and the energy no longer leaving him slightly jittery - he hadn't needed that much, but whatever he is doesn't seem to have a clue about the concept of enough, because that slight feeling is gone and all he feels like is needing more.

(This, this is what he hates. This constant... _need,_ he supposes. He doesn't like to think the word that follows, so he's not going to.)

He doesn't see it, but his eyes are darker. Stiles blinks, and they're whisky-gold in the light of dawn breaking through the gap in the curtains.

Stiles exhales slowly, and doesn't look to his friends. He feels jittery again, but not with energy.

He doesn't like the feeling of fear. It puts his nerves on end and spikes his anger, because that's what his fear does. Lately.

(To be truthful, Stiles fears but fears strangely. Generally, he doesn't have the same level of what is scary as most people seem to, and his instincts are more often fight than flight.)

(Taunts work wonders - as in, he always seems to fall for them, for goading. He's never known why, and it's irritating beyond belief.)

Scott glances at him. Malia squeezes his forearm, and Liam quite obviously sniffs the air, this time actually confused.

Crap. Stiles breaths, calms, and tries to replicate whatever happened in the woods to make him unable to be tracked.

That part doesn't work, of course it doesn't (when does anything ever work?) but he does calm, a little and the fear - well, not really fear, he supposes, though there was a sharp spike of that at first - dies down, calms too, into a kind of wary, worried-tasting tangy feeling in the back of his throat.

(Like he's going to throw up off oranges or something weird like that. He's still getting used to this empathy thing... different people feel differently. For Noshiko, it was like weather - for Malia, like feelings; a chain around the neck, weighing her down for pain, and a warm blanket surrounding them for comfort, as an example. For Scott, it appears to be food - which is hilarious. If only he could say that without looking fucking insane, well... he probably wouldn't. Since even if he wouldn't look insane, it's still not something Normal Human Stiles should be able to do, in Scott's eyes - Stiles figures.)

"Well." Stiles states, then has no idea how to continue. "That - is something that's been existing for a little while now." He finishes, awkwardly stilted.

There's a pause, because of course there is - Stiles knew this would be awkward as fuck.

(He's glad he's not being glared at, yet, however. Some of his nightmares may or may not have been about this very situation happening very differently.)

"When?" Scott asks.

"You know." Stiles says, because he does. "After the... funerals, wasn't it?" Lydia states rhetorically, but Stiles nods regardless in confirmation. "Yeah." He mutters. "Wasn't controllable at first." He admits. "That's new. Recent."

Kira is silent, and Stiles isn't sure what that means. Stiles knows Kira knows that he went to see her mom, because - well, he's not sure he just does, okay - because reasons, and he almost wants her to speak, but doesn't want her to talk at all ever, because she might tell everyone that and he doesn't want people knowing.

She doesn't. Just stares, and Stiles isn't exactly thrilled that bubbly, kind Kira is looking at him warily, but he knows why. Can read it off her emotions like words off a page and motives from a crime.

(If you only look hard enough, for the latter. And aren't possessed by a fox spirit, quite obviously regarding the former.)

Stiles averts his eyes and looks to Scott, worried and wary and hopeful Scott (worried because he doesn't know what this means, wary because the Nogitsune had that ability and he can't help being wary, hopeful because his wolf knows the use of that ability well (or thinks it does) and knows it to be useful, guilty because he doesn't want to judge his friend but can't help it because someone with his face and his mannerisms fucking ruined their lives a fair bit for a fair amount of time and Stiles knows the swearing is more Stiles than Scott - but that doesn't matter, because this is their feelings in words and terms he'd understand - and Stiles understands he shouldn't be paying this much attention to someone's emotions because he can, and has gotten lost in them before, trying to figure them out and root out the reasons and motives and he just needs to know _why,_ and if he let himself he could know a person inside-out, could understand exactly what makes them tick, could drain emotions he doesn't like and manipulate them into how he wishes, and this is no longer about Scott, this is about him. And Stiles knows he's a little messed up, okay? He gets that.)

Stiles blinks, clears his throat. His eyes go whiskey-gold again - the more he dug deeper in with his power, the darker his eyes got.

It's a weird thing. But at least it lets Malia know when he's not all there, and when he's wholly present. That's something that is very much required, as of late.

"Hey." She says, softer than usual. Stiles nods, and she pats his shoulder softly.

(She gets a little gentle, when that happens. He knows why, of course, and for some reason he doesn't mind.)

(He thinks he would if it were anyone else.)

"Stiles?" Scott asks - not in the sense of if he is Stiles - to which the teen is grateful - but in the sense that he want's to know if Stiles is _there,_ for which he is not thankful.

(Dementophobia, anyone?)

"Yeah. I'm fine." Stiles replies, automatic. "Did you want to know anything else?" He says, changing the subject. Scott nods, and lets it go for now.

"So, you can - do the pain thing." Scott starts. "Is it any different from ours? as in the were wolf one." He adds as unnecessary explanation. Stiles sighs.

"Don't freak." He warns, because Scott would - might, do so.

"But no. More -" Stiles winces, visibly. "More like the one he used, if you get what I mean."

Scott sighs. He doesn't freak out, thankfully, just - Stiles doesn't want to know. He focuses his empathy on Malia, even though he knows that that's probably dangerous.

(Like what happened earlier... he gets lost.)

"He?" Liam asks. Now would be a good time for the runt to not talk, Stiles thinks. Liam notices the looks on their faces, and sits back; doesn't ask again.

Maybe it was the look on his face, Stiles thinks, but it doesn't matter. Not now, anyway.

"Alright." Scott continues from earlier. "So; pain drain thing. Anything else?"

Stiles doesn't particularly want to say. Malia glances over, sighs, and replies for him.

"Empathy. Random bouts of enhanced strength - though, as far as I'm aware..." She paused, glanced at Lydia, Stiles. "That happened before." She carried on, after neither objected. Malia ignored Scott's attempt to ask what Mal meant as she did so. "His intuition is pretty much uncanny - though that's part of the empathy, I think." She states, a tad uncertain. "Like, knowing stuff he has no right to know, for example." Malia offers. "That's all I know." She admits. "But I think there might be other stuff. I only met him during it's stay." She says bluntly. "So I don't really know what to compare his abilities to." Scott acknowledges this, and then turns his gaze to Stiles.

"Is there, then?" Scott asks, and Stiles shrugs. "Don't think so." He says, truthfully.

"Then this meeting is adjourned." Lydia says. Stiles narrows his eyes at her - because he knows that means this interrogation isn't over, in her eyes. She smiles at him, prettily, but he knows to ignore that.

(It doesn't reach her eyes. Stiles wonders what she's planning.)

(Malia seems to notice as well, as her hand tightens on his bicep. Other than that, she doesn't react.)

"I need to get home," Liam says - breaking the silence. "Dad... he's probably waiting. Worried." Liam reasons, gets up and leaves the room, nodding to Scott as he went.

"See ya, Liam." Stiles says, and he feels tired. It's been a long few days, but they have school in - not long, and Stiles missed it yesterday so he can't miss it again.

They all look tired to him. He knows it's because they spent all night looking for them, in the woods, then had to wait up until they returned home - getting there only at first light... and it had been very dark out when Stiles had last seen them.

Scott grimaces, cracks his neck. It's loud to Stiles, and it's the same for Malia apparently, because she winces.

"School's soon." Scott says, sighs out - tired as all hell, Stiles knows.

He's never done this before - but it's worth a try.

Stiles gets up, and pats Scott on the shoulder on his way out of the living room. Small tendrils shoot out from Stiles and through to Scott - and his friend sits up a little straighter, his eyes widen a bit and stop drooping.

Scott blinks, a little, shrugs and helps Kira up. "We've gotta go." He says. Stiles acknowledges this with a dismissive wave of his hand as he enters the kitchen.

"Yeah, Scotty. Just go - don't wanna be late for class." He says, honest. Their attendance already sucks; they really can't deal with it being made any worse.

Stiles can tell Scott nods and leaves with Kira, opening the door for her and letting her leave first.

Stiles listens, and can hear a conversation between Malia and Scott. He leaves it be, for now - but he admits he probably wouldn't've if he'd been... not been... damnit. If he'd been strong enough (there we go) to eavesdrop - but he isn't, and he's tired. So he lets it go.

(for now.)

* * *

Lydia is... shall we say, a tad bit annoyed. She got even less out of that intervention than when the two invited her over, and she knows she really should have expected this, of course she does - but it doesn't help her mood.

"Where does Mandy Briarson usually spend her time?" She asks the sophomore - it's easier to intimidate the younger gossips into telling her what she wants to know. The older ones she has to bribe, and that costs her something. Right now, she doesn't want to have to pay anyone anything - as she's rather annoyed, to say the least.

(and having to fork over something, be it cash or something she doesn't have readily on hand would be aggravating - so she goes another route.)

"Well?" She demands. This mood probably has more to do with her being _very_ tired more than anything else - though on the plus side she did get some alone time with Parrish, which was nice.

(After all, he's a rather attractive man. And she's done with teenage boys.)

"Library." The girl says. She's blonde, and shorter than Lydia, and is wearing some god awful jeans. Really, Lydia feels bad for the girl's legs.

"Usually in the fiction section." She adds. "Never seems to be anywhere else during the day. She's also a member of that weird occult club, so that could be an in." The blond added. Lydia has dubbed her Blondie.

(It's a little better than Bob. But not by much.)

"She sits outside under the tree on the edge of campus during lunch." The girl finishes. Lydia smiles falsely, and nods. "Thank you for the information." She finishes.

The girl nods and scrambles. Lydia exits the classroom by the other door, and smooths out her skirt.

She's going to figure this out, even if she has to figure it out alone. It's not like she hasn't done that before.

* * *

 ** _Notes:_ oh shit. Plot's a-happening.**


	9. Noah Worries

_**Summary: Noah knows there's something not quite right with Stiles these days. Knows, with a harsh certainty, that he... changed, after - well, due, to the Nogitsune. And the Sheriff knows that this is to be expected, he'd just wished he hadn't changed in the ways he has.**_

 ** _And so, Noah worries. As a father would (and should) do._ **

**Notes: Note that the sheriff thinks stiles is not eating for reasons that aren't true. Stiles doesn't eat in this 'verse because he doesn't need to, the body he's in is a clone of his old one and is supernaturally made, he uses the energy given by taking pain as a kind of 'food'. He can eat, sure, but he doesn't need to. Warning for that. Also there's talk of death and Malia's at the time believed to be accidental manslaughter of her family, and Noah vaguely referencing Stiles' mother and the thing she did that time on the roof and might very well have done at other times when Mr. Stilinski wasn't present. Okay, think that's it, on with the story.**

 **(See the end of the work for more notes.)**

* * *

When Stiles was younger, a pre-teen, and Noah was a consistent drinker, the Sheriff never knew exactly where he was, or what he was doing. At the time, he hadn't exactly been the best Dad, and he knows this. Knows it like he now knows of the supernatural; a cold, hard, fact - that hurts, hurts a serious amount. Because, well, Noah's the Sheriff. If anything, he should be a good Dad, a good influence, right?

pparently not. Considering what he can gather of McCall, perhaps it's something to do with their career path - the drinking when they shouldn't and doing things that they regret.

However. Stiles...

Noah had figured their relationship irreparable after his stint with Alcoholism (or close enough to it that the difference didn't matter with the law, and wasn't it a bad thing that it was the threat of losing his job that got him to stop, not the issue of his young, impressionable, grieving son?) yet, it was, it was fixed and it took a year or so but they were back to being a family, even if it wasn't one quite as whole as the Stilinskis once were.

But then, then came sophomore year. Scott suddenly lost his Asthma, Stiles started being more sketchy than he'd ever been; showing up at more and more vicious and serious crime scenes, hiding things from Noah - at one point, the Sheriff had panicked enough to wonder if his son was in a _gang,_ because _something_ was going on that was bad enough that Stiles had to lie to his face, and looking back, the lies were good enough to fool him. Not into thinking he wasn't lying, except that one time at the gay club, but into completely missing the mark.

Noah worries about that too. About how he can so easily hide things, despite his low ability at lying to people who know him well enough.

So yes. Sophomore year got the Sheriff wondering if their relationship had truly been damaged in ways that couldn't be seen until the circumstances were so far out of his control that it was nowhere near funny.

And the following months showed that exactly. It wasn't until he was captured that he even considered believing his son, taking his word as the truth, because he'd been lied to for so long, so long - but that shouldn't matter, right? Yes, Stiles should have given him proof, but he'd tried before the poor girl fainted, and Noah didn't even think on it again until he was in the basement with Melissa and Argent. Yet, Noah isn't certain either of them were in the wrong, at the same time as wondering which of them might have been.

So yes. Sophomore year and part of Junior year, the Sheriff had been so far into the dark of things that the light near blinded him when the truth was shoved into his face. It took him a few weeks to start dealing, delving into old cases with new eyes, and then a girl was saved.

The same girl eating breakfast with his son in the kitchen. Noah isn't sure when she found him, or when they got back, but at least it means this worry can be checked off the list.

When Noah enters the kitchen for some of his own food, he frowns at Stiles' lack of any. Walking over to the cupboard for some bread (he feels like a sandwich... though Stiles will probably force salad on there somewhere if he tries for bacon and Noah knows Malia will assist him) "When'd you get back?" he asks conversationally, and there - Stiles already knew he was here; his son didn't jump, slightly, as he would if caught off guard.

Noah's noticed some things that are... off, about his son, since the nogitsune. They're not the kind of 'off' that he had been expecting - not exactly. The guilt was there, he'd seen it in the way Stiles tried to be perfectly normal for his friends, seen it in the way Allison was a word that was practically non-existent in his vocabulary, and what stiles would call the irrational (but Noah thinks is entirely rational) fear of not being himself is obvious if you know what you're looking for.

Noah isn't sure his friends know. The sheriff sometimes thinks that, since they can smell chemo signals and hear heartbeats, they forget about everything else you should look out for.

(Because, if he knows his son, and he does, he knows that Stiles would have found a way to keep his heartbeat steady by now. Out of a need for privacy, if nothing else. But it's likely a wish to be able to lie, if needed. Noah isn't sure that's a reason he is comfortable with.)

But regardless of what he'd expected, there were still other, more worrying things that need to be addressed. Because he knows for a fact that Stiles isn't eating at home, and from what he's aware of, when he goes out with Malia she's the reason the food bill looks more like it's for two.

"Earlier this morning." Stiles says, answering Noah's question in a vague way the Sheriff is more than used to. Earlier this morning could mean any time from midnight to a few minutes ago, and Stiles is very much aware of that, Noah knows.

"Have you slept? Eaten?" he asks the two, who agree in differing ways. "Yeah." Stiles nods, but to which question? Malia hums an affirmation through a mouthful of bacon, takes a swig of juice and stares holes into his son's head with intent. There's a story there, Noah can tell. Stiles shifts, restless as always but in a more nervous way than usual. That can mean a few things for his son; he's not taking his medication properly, which has happened a few times over the years and much more often nowadays, due to the serious amount of... well, due to the supernatural ridiculousness that happens pretty much every second of every day for these kids. Another possibility is guilt; Noah thinks that might be more likely but he's not certain, since the final choice is that he simply is just nervous. His son might be a bit complicated for most to read, but Noah's had a long seventeen years doing this - give or take a few due to his own bad choices, and leave out a few months, maybe, due to Stiles' lies.

(Noah still doesn't know the full picture. He wants to, but yet he's not sure if he really does, or if Stiles even wants him to understand in the first place.)

Stiles shrugs a glance over to Malia, who huffs and rolls her eyes, takes a bite of a pancake.

The conversation continues, Noah thinks, still completely and utterly unaware of the content or context.

"Where'd you go?" He asks instead, grabs the bacon to fry, and at Stiles' narrowed look sighs and grabs the salad bits from the fridge. Quickly making a less appetising sandwich than planned, Noah sits at the counter island. Stiles taps incessantly on the table, drops from his perch and takes a seat next to Malia. Taking this as him preparing, the Sheriff waits for his son's answer.

You've got to give Stiles time. Push, and he pushes back, and in the end you'll get nowhere. Let him talk, and he'll tell you everything.

Even if he doesn't trust you. Perhaps especially then; Noah thinks Stiles would like to not care one single bit about what someone thinks of him, not care even the slightest about what happens to that person considering the amount of worry and, Noah knows, fear he has for his friends and what they think of him, at all times in all ways. The Sheriff thinks that might be exhausting, but he wouldn't know.

Noah thinks that's part and parcel of Stiles' anxiety, however, and has never said anything Stiles wouldn't want him to regarding it, as far as he's aware of.

"I went to the preserve." Stiles says. "Drove around for a bit, I think, then ditched my car at the entrance and _went for a walk."_ Stiles scoffs, as if that should seem ridiculous. Malia sighs, slightly, shifts, and Noah knows this to be more lies. Well, partial lies. Lies and omissions are his son's language, these days, it seems. Noah gives him credit that it's well crafted, at least. He's not exactly pleased that his son is getting better at lying, but if it saves his life one of these days, Noah won't complain.

"I found him at the nemeton." She says, readily, and Stiles shifts but if he reacted beyond that Noah missed it. "In the cellar." She adds, and Stiles does react then, cautious; preparing, Noah knows that as he feels a spike of worry at this information, because the last time he'd been in that root cellar the place was collapsing in on itself. Stiles' eyes shift to the corner of the room, and Noah follows their line. Sees the aluminium bat, and sighs, because his son gets into far too much trouble for the Sheriff's liking.

"I'm glad you got back safe." He says, safely, to the two almost-adults in front of him. And isn't that a weird thought? His son is seventeen, yes, but he's going to be eighteen soon enough. It's strange to know, is all, that your child is no longer a child.

Malia offers a smile and polishes off her pancakes, finishes her glass of juice. Stiles drops off the stool, and Noah lets slip, "Aren't you eating?" before he can stop himself, because he worries, he does, and he always will.

Stiles stops, hesitates, and Noah knows the answer is 'no.'

"You should." He says instead of _you have to in order to survive, are you trying to starve yourself?_ as that screams in his head, worried and scared and ultimately, _protective,_ since this is _his son,_ and he's, as far as Noah's aware, _not eating._

"I-" Stiles starts, stops, fidgets with guilty nerves. Noah knows stiles was changed by the Nogitsune, he does - and this is one of the ways which worries him. One of the ones he didn't expect.

Malia grunts out an annoyed sound, frustrated and final, and says "He doesn't need to." blunt and, as far as Noah can tell, but he can't read her as well as the rest - too blunt but too flat, characteristics more animal than girl, and he doesn't know what to make of her half the time. His son met Malia in a mental institution, properly (but not for the first time), and Noah isn't sure what he thinks of that.

Since he's no idea what they got up to in there, and nor does anyone else. No idea what happened to them. Why when Stiles left, he wasn't Stiles any longer.

(Noah really needs to make sure he cancelled Stiles' admittance into that place.)

"Malia." Stiles says, not exactly reprimanding, more... resigned, Noah thinks. The kind of tone you might have when someone says or does something for you that you don't want them to, but you're powerless to stop them and you know it.

Perhaps a bit dramatic, but he never claimed his son wasn't slightly over the top sometimes.

"What do you mean." He demands of Malia, knowing full well Stiles won't answer but Malia might, and he needs some answers.

"He doesn't need to eat." She says, slowly, as if Noah's rather stupid. He understands that the sentence is an obvious, simple thing, but the meaning behind it is hard to comprehend. And since the girl is still learning how to be human, and Stiles just shot her a reprimanding look, Noah lets the way she repeated herself go.

"I get that." The sheriff says, dry. "Let me rephrase it. _Why doesn't he need to eat food?"_ Noah asks, not quite polite enough to not be demanding, and Stiles reluctantly drops down onto the stool he'd left earlier.

"This body isn't mine." Stiles says, and Noah doesn't interrupt him, following his own rules for dealing with his son when the teen is reluctant to tell people something. Continuing, Stiles breathes. "When I separated from _Him,_ I didn't get my old body." he explains. "I got vomited up in a pile of bandages dressed like the previous host and the manifestation of the Nogitsune within my mind."

Ah. Noah adds that to the list (Worryingly long, growing list) of Mental scars his son at least _might_ have.

(There are ones on there that not even Stiles knows about. From a night at the hospital when things truly started going sour, at least as far as Noah knows. Since Stiles hadn't been able to remember enough to tell him if _it_ had happened before.

Noah has always felt stupid about that. Ignorant because of fears of being like his own piss-poor father, he stood by enough for his wife to do it for him.)

Stiles carries on, and Noah knows he must have not looked like he was concentrating then.

"That wasn't fun." Stiles says drily, not trying to lift the mood but rather trying to convey how he'd felt, without actually having to say it, and saying it in a way some might take for dark humour. His son was good at that, far more so than he should be for a seventeen year old.

"So, that happened, but it ended up having some side effects that only really came into being after he was removed and put in a box." Stiles shrugged. "I didn't really know what was going on until a couple weeks later, since I was more concentrating on the funerals, self pity, and a few other things." Malia softened, then, slightly, and Noah knew that back then she was even less empathetic than now. She was getting better, from what Noah'd heard, but since Stiles had been so distracted he hadn't really had much of his time dedicated to helping her as he knew his son would have liked - at least, as far as Noah's aware.

"It basically means that this body doesn't need sustenance the way normal ones do. The body being a magically made clone that rose up out of the floor when it shouldn't have been able to do so."

Stiles shrugged. Noah frowned, slightly. "So it doesn't need sustenance?" Noah kept the clinical third-person view of Stiles' new body (and wasn't that a weird thought?) because Stiles himself did so; Noah figured it was Stiles' current way of dealing with the fact that the body he has now isn't the one he had before. The sheriff knows that would screw with his brain, he can't imagine how much it twists his son's.

Malia flicked her eyes over to Stiles; it looked as if she'd decided that she'd done her part, now, and the rest was up to his son.

"No, doesn't seem so." Stiles says. "Not in the same way." He repeats, then clarifies; "If I don't get any it won't kill me, but I look healthier and... yeah, I feel a bit less off if I do." Noah noted and filed that Stiles avoided 'feel better' like he avoided all things that worried him; Stiles had a habit of ignoring problems until they go away when they're about himself. The sheriff would like to avoid that situation this time if at all possible.

"So what do - does your body require instead?" Noah asked, haltingly, hoping the phrasing wouldn't be taken the wrong way. Stiles shrugged, so Noah took that it was fine. Stiles appears like he's avoiding answering, but Malia doesn't seem like she wants to let him. The teen looks at his son, stares until he looks back, and sighs, and nods. She inclines her head, satisfied, then puts her arm on the table, flat and easily visible - like she's preparing for a demonstration.

Noah isn't sure he likes where this is going.

Stiles looks conflicted, but for some reason or another Noah can't quite grasp what he's feeling from his expression, his current body language, so the Sheriff simply waits, watches. Wonders.

Stiles seems to gather up some form of courage as he cautiously places his hand over Malia's. Nothing happens for a moment, but then the tension leaves his son's shoulder's and Malia's eyes. Stark, black veins spread down what he can see of Malia's arm; they fade into view and seemingly travel downwards, towards where her hand is linked with his son's. The veins travel somehow through their grip, and up Stiles' arm, fading out of sight at the same point as they faded into Existence onto Malia's arm. Stiles appears to try and pull away, but Malia's grip tightens, and Noah wonders what the fuck, (and he doesn't swear often so you can tell he's absolutely amazed, the literal definition of such; 'causing great surprise or wonder; astonishing.' the _dictionary definition_ of amazed) what the hell is going on.

After a few seconds of gathering composure, Noah nods, adds this to the list as a possible _maybe_ thing to worry on, and says. "Okay. So, what exactly is...?"

He can't quite bring himself to say _what is it you're feeding on?_ because that's what's happening, and he knows it, but it's just too... much, Noah thinks, and he thinks Stiles has the same feeling about it.

"Pain." Malia says. Now that, _that,_ that is something he's not, vehemently _not_ a fan of.

Stiles grimaces, looks away, but the girl has her full strength behind that grip and he can't leave, can't run. Noah is, in part, glad of that.

Stiles _looks_ at Malia. _'Seriously?'_ His expression seems to say, but Noah can't read her returned one. Stiles slumps, a little, at it, relents and she smiles; a small thing, easily missable if you weren't looking.

Stiles seems like he wants to say something, but isn't sure what to say. Noah had hoped they'd gotten past this, at some point in the last months - he hates to think that it might have only gotten _worse._

"It's not a bad thing." Malia says, out of the blue and Noah wonders why she does this sometimes. "It helps." Is all she adds as explanation, and Noah understands, immediately - because the girl never got any psychiatric help, doesn't know it isn't good for you to have pain that should be there and should be dealt with in a healthy manner removed from you entirely.

"I killed my family." She says, steady, staring at him as if daring, _daring_ the sheriff to judge. Stiles doesn't, of course he doesn't - his eyes are sympathetic and his grip - lax before, unwilling - tightens a little, the veins blacken and she straightens. Noah's not sure what he just took, but he still doesn't like it.

"During a full moon and I couldn't control it, not even a little - my first full moon. Stuck eight or so years as a coyote, no human brain with which to process guilt and fear and pain and unable to grieve, I never could deal with it." She continues, steady - perhaps unwilling, perhaps willing - perhaps, even - Noah thinks - making a point.

"Then I'm back. And it all floods to the centre, forefront, and I just want it gone, I want to be a coyote again because it was easier, not having to look my dad in the face and say _I took our family away, dad, can you still love me?_ "

Her face is calm - her eyes are not. Noah knows to look at eyes, and Stiles must as well; he sees his son gaze sympathetically in her direction - no, _empathetically,_ he knows this feeling Noah can tell, and _god_ if only these kids could have psychiatrists without immediately getting sentenced to Eichen house, they need to deal with this shit (again, he doesn't normally swear; extenuating circumstances) - and Stiles brushes a thumb, lightly, against her hand and the tension loosens, and Noah can't think of this as healthy, not truly, not a permanently good thing.

(He thinks if someone got used to it enough; their pain being taken away, he thinks it could get addictive. He's seen it before, just not with supernatural tones. He feels like he's looking at living, breathing drug metaphors - because people use drugs to relieve pain and forget their life for a short while; at least the ones who take them for a reason - and as a sheriff, he hates that utterly.)

Noah has no idea what to say, so he doesn't say a single word. This girl isn't his, he doesn't know her, not really. She's a werecoyote who's dating his son - but they don't know each other personally.

"Emotional pain is the kind that lasts, and its the kind werewolves can't take." She says. Scott, Noah thinks, would hate that he couldn't help his friends - but Noah is relieved at that when he knows he shouldn't be.

Noah would give up his job and his respect to save his son, he'd give his _life,_ but he'd keep his job to save his son too - so he doesn't know what to do about this.

"I can give some of my energy up to help another." Stiles says, quietly, trying to move the conversation on, that previous line deader than a doornail.

(It's deader than dead people. That's what it's about, after all, and they all have skeletons in their closets, even if Noah didn't personally put his in there.)

Noah nods, still at a loss for words - because he's still thinking of that whole drug metaphor thing that he shouldn't be thinking of because it's not that at all, however that doesn't seem to matter to him, and the Sheriff is... incredibly conflicted.

Because, in this, there's nothing to save Stiles from. Not himself, not an outside force, not another possession. This is a part of Stiles, now - and Noah needs to find a way to accept that before things end up inevitably going south.

Malia frowns at him, and stiles shifts, uncomfortable, nervous - very, very guilty, and Noah can't tell _why._

Malia speaks up, blunt as ever and he thinks that to be a trait she gained from being a coyote for so long. That animal rarely hides it's intentions, after all.

"There is some other stuff the nogitsune left behind in this clone as a last 'fuck you' to us all." She says, and Stiles grimaces, flicks his eyes and mutters, _"Adult, Malia,_ _ **adult,"**_ and she sighs, nods, shrugs.

She won't swear in front of him again, Noah knows. not at that strength, at least. It's not like Stiles hasn't said the occasional 'crap' within earshot, after all.

Continuing, Malia explains what else was left that Noah will have to add to an entirely new list.

"Empathy." She breaks out with, and, well, _crap._ He knows, vaguely, what that's about from overheard conversations and a few books and things. Noah knows it isn't usually a good thing, but it varies on safety and usefulness. He hopes its as safe and as useless as possible, if only so Stiles doesn't have to deal with other people's emotions and can honestly just ignore it.

Stiles looks at him. "I can tell exactly what a person's feeling; how it feels to me varies. I can also tell why they feel that, and, theoretically, I should also be able to..." Stiles pauses, Malia tightens her grip and it's _Stiles_ who straightens. "To alter it, slightly. Influence and warp and _change,_ permanently."

This is what Noah was afraid of when he'd heard Malia say _empathy._ The least safe, because he knows from old cases such power is intoxicating to most (though he hopes not to Stiles) and useful because, well, there's no way anyone's hiding anything from Stiles, now - and Stiles generally is far too nosy for anyone's good.

"I would never try." Stiles insists, grave - hurt, too, Noah can see this, but he's helpless to explain he _knows,_ knows that truly he does, but the empathy only explains why he feels the fear but not why it's only a slight amount. That, in part, is why this Empathy is dangerous, and so the Sheriff adds this, underlined, to his mental worries list.

"I know." Noah says, believes utterly, so his son relaxes, slightly - and Noah wonders if Stiles is affected by other people's feelings, if Stiles' own emotions affect others in positive and or negative ways.

(Legally - literally; as in, during Law-based situations - 'and or' isn't really accepted. Therefore, he doesn't use it often, having trained himself not to, but Noah thinks this situation calls for it in the way that comes from the fact that he can't seem to phrase his wondering differently, without it coming across in a manner that he doesn't mean.)

"When I have enough... energy-" And here, his son avoids (glaringly, obviously avoids) using _food, 'when I've fed, eaten enough'_ \- because that just sounds... wrong, to Noah, so he thinks that it would sound the same to Stiles, "-I have a bit more strength than before, but only in certain situations." He shrugs. "Most things only happen in certain situations, but empathy and pain-drain are constants." Stiles admits, and Noah wonders what those most things are. "Well." Stiles backtracks, seemingly thinking of something that had happened before. "Empathy can stop working if I don't have enough energy as like, an area of effect thing. It's constant, but only as contact. I have to have had enough energy for it to be area of effect... it's kind of how I gauge the amount of energy I have. So I make sure I have enough for empathy, because less tends to make me lethargic and look..."

 _Like I'm dying,_ goes unsaid, but Noah can see it in his eyes and hear it in Malia's held-back speech - stopped with a reprimanding slight tightening of stiles' grip. (But no vein-darkening, thankfully.)

Stiles is looking far healthier than he did at the start of the conversation, Noah is noticing, but nowhere near perfect health. Less pale, sure, eyes less baggy, less sunken, lips less chapped. Malia is looking more at ease, of course she is, but no more than that - perhaps a slight straightening of the shoulders seen in both of them, Noah notes, but she gets little physical help from this. His son's is far more evident, physically; as described previously - but little increments here and there are getting better every few moments or so that Noah doesn't pay close attention during.

But yes; Stiles looks healthier - he'll give it that, but he still doesn't look good. Noah would reprimand himself for not noticing until now, if he didn't have a few months of his son looking so close to death that anything else would seem like the height of healthiness in comparison.

The pain-transfer-transaction is still going, and Noah isn't sure it'll stop until Malia lets it or Stiles forces it to, and so he looks everywhere else, because his son, his _human_ son, is doing something no human has any business doing, and if there was one thing he'd hoped it was that Stiles stayed as human as he'd always been, right up until he died long into the future as an old man, surrounded by friends and family.

Stiles seems to sense this, and Noah curses himself because, as much as it's not exactly comfortable for him to see this happening, Stiles does need this... thing, and the Sheriff doesn't want to be the reason his son practically _starves_ himself.

Malia tightens her already white-knuckled grip, and Noah worries she's forgotten the fragility of human bone already because the full strength of a werecoyote should break a human's hand, no matter the difference in visible strength and size of the other person involved.

(The people who think his son is weak are generally thought of as idiots by the Sheriff's department. He's broken far too many heavy objects that he has no right to be able to break at the age he was at when he broke the objects for them to think he's _not_ strong. It's just a deceptive thing, his son's strength - and that helps, Noah thinks, because it means people underestimate him.)

(The first time he pulled over the vending machine when a packet got stuck (fourteen years old, yelping when it happened and sweating slightly when Noah found him after hearing said noise) was not the last, let that be said - but it did get some betting pools given out to the winners and carefully, deliberately ignored by the Sheriff, because really, it wasn't doing any harm.)

However, of course she doesn't break his hand - Noah can't this time rationalise stiles' strength and resilience and has to admit _something_ is up with that, because no human has any right to be able to stand up against the fully exerted strength of a supernatural being.

Stiles doesn't move after that - perhaps understanding Malia wouldn't let him remove his hand unless he wanted to break hers to do it, and Noah knows he would never, so Stiles stays still. Sighing, Stiles looks over to the Sheriff, and Noah nods, stiles slumps (relieved, accepting) and nods to his Dad.

Smiling, Noah nods to the clock. "School starts soon." He says, and with a quiet 'crap' that he ignores as he's always done (and a petulant _'oh, so you can'_ from Malia along with Stiles' retorted _'crap is fine; you just can't swear strongly in front of adults or at all in front of teachers'_ he lectures, teaching absently and Malia takes this in, registers and records and will never not take Stiles' lessons on human behaviour seriously, Noah knows.) the two leave the room, hurried slightly but in no rush - Noah would reprimand that they'd be late, but truly Stiles shouldn't even be in school today, so the Sheriff will let them off this time - and Noah hears, a little time later, the jeep revving and then speeding off at exactly the legal limit.

(Mentally, Noah sighs, because his son really does like to test his limits with certain aspects of the law a little too much, and hopes that he won't need to write off another ticket of some form.)

Noah cracks his neck and nods to himself, because in all honesty that went surprisingly well, considering it was a talk between himself, his son, his son's girlfriend and was about a fair few dark topics he knows the three of them would rather leave well alone.

Finishing off his sandwich, mentally grimacing at the _salad_ but knowing Stiles was only looking out for his health (because in a world where Stiles' mother is dead and people are dropping left and right from supernatural causes, Stiles couldn't deal with his dad's death simply because of something as easily controllable as diet, Noah knows so he accepts it, easily - though with the semi-pretence of reluctance), the Sheriff tidies up the plates by putting them in the sink (planning to wash them later, but knowing they'd be back in the cupboards by the time he got home regardless) and left the house, grabbing his keys and his jacket along the way. Noah entered his car, and drove to the station, ready for another day wondering if the next case would be something his son and the rest of the teenagers (and perhaps Parrish; it was no coincidence Jordan came to this town, after all) would handle better than he could.

That happened more often than not, these days. He's proud to say (even though he really shouldn't need to be) that he doesn't need a drink at that thought.

* * *

 _Notes: 5300 word chapter whoop- (my chapters have not been consistently long for this and I apologise)_


	10. Sunday, The Trilogy

**Noes: This is supposed to be multi-chaptered, but since it's so short I'll just put it all in the one**

 _Summary: It's Sunday. Stiles breathes, starts the the Jeep._  
 _"I could go with you," Malia says. "Nah." Stiles waves her off. "I might get stabbed if I bring anyone else." Notes: Wow, it seems almost like it's been longer than a week since Mrs. Yukimura set Sunday as the day they'd Talk about It._  
 _Man, I wonder why. Here it is regardless, sorry for the wait._

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1: Sunday morning.**_

 _Summary: Things unexpected happen - and pencils are involved._

 **Notes: I'm baaccckkk (off holidayyy)! Have this as a little present and a 'sorry it's been so long so here's the technically first multi-chaptered work in this series'-apology.**

 **(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)**

* * *

It's Sunday.

Stiles breathes, starts the Jeep. "I could go with you," Malia says.

Stiles thinks, for a moment. Then:

"Nah." Stiles waves her off. "I might get stabbed if I bring anyone else."

Malia looks flatly at him, as if to say ' _and you wonder why I'm offering to come,'_ so Stiles shrugs. "Most likely I'll just be sitting on a couch the whole time, so It's bound to be wholly uninteresting, Mal."

She sighed. "Fine," the coyote relented. "But if you _do_ happen to get stabbed, I know who to blame."

Stiles grins, and she smiles - gets out the car. "Be careful," Malia says - serious. Stiles nods... a little uncomfortable, sure - it's only been a day or so since this whole thing became common knowledge, and all that _that_ entails.

(the 'Running around undetectable in the preserve and evil trees with surprise gifts' thing that happened, along with 'Malia maybe sort of almost severely damaging Scotty' and Stiles 'being less than perfectly himself' things. They made the last couple days a _nightmare_ to deal with.)

Stiles watches Malia walk off in the direction of what Stiles thinks to be Lydia's home, for a bit. Once she rounds the corner, he puts the car into gear, and drives.

* * *

The Yukimura house is the same as it was a week ago - not that Stiles expected any different, honestly, but there you have it.

Stiles pulled up to the curb, shut off the Jeep's engine. He spied the curtains shift, and heard shuffling (he shouldn't have) as someone moved towards the door.

Heartbeat(s) pounding in his ears (three; his, hers - who's the other? Surely not her husband; Noshiko doesn't seem like she'd want her husband anywhere near while this goes down), Stiles exits the car, locks it, and pockets his keys.

By the time he's gotten to the door, Noshiko had arrived at it. He didn't even need to knock before it was opened.

"Stiles," she greeted him. He nodded in return, and the kitsune stood aside as he entered.

Of _fucking_ course. Stiles had half a mind to just turn around and leave, but the sound of the door locking shut clicked loud in the silent hall.

"Stiles," Deaton greeted, and Stiles huffed.

"I fear that there may still be a tie between you and the nogitsune - all I'm here to do today is make sure any link is fully severed." Deaton explained. "Anything else can be discussed another time, but this takes priority."

Stiles followed the two adults into the living room, and sat on the couch again.

"You appear to be handling things better than when you were last here," Noshiko commented. "I'd commend you for it if I didn't know what happened the other day."

Stiles scowled. "Right," he muttered. " _that."_

"Yes," Deaton agreed. "'That' has been moved to what Noshiko wishes to talk with you about today rather than what was planned... short notice tends to ruin things like plans." He mused. "Regardless... Noshiko, if you would?"

The woman nodded, and walked over to the cabinet.

Stiles stilled. "Are you sure that's such a good idea?" He asked, dubiously - looking at Deaton askance for a moment before focusing fully on what Mrs. Yukimura was doing.

"I need to see the reaction for myself in order to determine the cause." Deaton nodded to the cabinet. "And in order for that to happen, we need to take the box out of it's prison."

Stiles sighed. This was going to go _so well._

Just as last time, Stiles felt a pull towards the cabinet - weaker, true, but still there - and for some godawful reason almost _longed_ to move over there and unlock the prison, brick by brick...

Stiles hadn't noticed in his concentration that he was tapping That rhythm out on his thigh again (which he'd managed to avoid consciously doing once his friends had started to notice), nor did he realise that he had leaned forwards, ever so slightly (as if he were to stand), either.

However, he did no more than that. The couch wasn't being pressed down, he hadn't stood, and there were no cups which he could dent.

So it was going better than the last visit. Marginally.

The pull shifted from the cabinet, and grew stronger. Stiles' head shot up, and he stared at the box, fingers stilling as he sat up straighter.

"What're you going to do with that?" Stiles asks.

"See what you do with it." Deaton replies. "He's still weakened; when you split, as you are likely aware, you took a few things that he requires."

"I didn't take anything." Stiles snaps back. "The Nogitsune's an ass who wanted to mess with us by leaving me with some shit I don't want or need."

Deaton purses his lips and says, "Are you sure?" But leaves it at that. Stiles is glad. (Read; relieved.)

He walks over, and Stiles resists the urge to stand - instead, he leans back into the couch.

"Good." Deaton inclines his head. "You're able to resist what the Nogitsune wants. What do you want to do?"

 _kill it._ Stiles thinks - but that's not exactly possible. _destroy it,_ but again - not possible. _Stop it from ever being able to do anything like what it did ever again..._

Now that, for someone else, someone with actually helpful powers, might just be plausible.

Deaton nods - what Stiles was thinking must have shown on his face, or maybe the druid had some hocus-pocus that let him know regardless (Stiles doesn't care) - and places the box on the coffee table in front of Stiles.

The two adults - Druid and ex-Kitsune - sit across from him. Stiles stares down at the box, and thinks.

"I -" He starts. Stiles frowns, inclines his head and stares at the box. "He doesn't want me to open it." Stiles realises.

Well. Stiles doesn't want to do whatever it wants him to do...

So he does.

The adults tense, but when Stiles has opened it nothing happens. They sit there, and after a minute or so relax slightly.

Stiles looks up to them.

"It's not moving." He says, and Noshiko leans forwards. He's right, she sees - the fly is lying at the bottom of the box, and -

She leans back, quick - Stiles stabs the Nogitsune-fly with a pencil and blinks.

"Um." He says. "Okay."

Deaton frowns, purses his lips.

"I think..." He says, slowly, looking up at the both of them. "It wants to die."

* * *

 _ **Chapter 2: A Concession.**_

 **Summary:**

 **Stiles has never exactly considered himself a nice person - not really, not on surface level - and has most certainly never thought himself on the same ranking of goodness that Scott just oozes out of his fucking pores without even trying.**

* * *

Stiles has never exactly considered himself a nice person - not really, not on surface level - and has most certainly never thought himself on the same ranking of goodness that Scott just oozes out of his fucking pores without even trying.

And therefore, when his first instinct (after putting the lid back on the box because if he doesn't he might just stare and stare and _stare - and lose track of time-)_ is to leave the pencil in the fly, that's exactly what he does.

Stiles puts the lid on the box and closes it, because (he can at least admit this) he doesn't want to get lost empathetically delving into the depths of that thing, no thanks and goodbye.

Stiles would latch the box, but the pencil is stopping him. Instead, he looks up to the two adults (900 year old ancient fox lady and nebulous-aged druid) sitting across.

"Why in hell would he want that?" Stiles responds, finally.

Deaton is looking at the little box with a face Stiles can't decipher. He feels confused, though - a bitter, nauseous tang in the back of Stiles' throat.

Because this is all new to the Doc, and he's pretty much just winging the whole thing.

Stiles glowers and turns his focus to Noshiko, smooths out his expression in the process. "And you? What do you think, as an ex-kitsune?"

She purses her lips at him - but Stiles is used to this sort of reaction, so he doesn't much care if his words could be considered rude. He just stabbed a nogitsune fly with a blunt 2B pencil; things getting weirder is just par for the course now, and Stiles doesn't really feel like allowing any pretence.

The flash of lightning is gone, and Noshiko actually _sighs,_ what the hell, before answering.

"He's old." She says, finally. "One-thousand and no tails, One-thousand and stuck travelling from host to host at the whims of others. Stuck fifty years underneath a tree that sapped his strength once it was chopped down, used his powers to hurt without sharing what that caused."

"So what," Stiles frowns, "You're saying It's - _tired?"_

He can't help the incredulity. They - It didn't seem very tired when he was murdering his friend and hurting the rest.

"Not exactly." She responds. "He's old, with no family and no heir of his own - not in the traditional sense." Noshiko continues, as she sets up a game of _Go._

"And?" Stiles says - doesn't ask. "So what? Why would that matter to such a psychopathic asshole?"

"He's a fox - even if a twisted one." She muses. "Perhaps he wishes death because he was out-tricked by wolves and humans and another kitsune far younger than himself."

"Heir?" Stiles remembers - narrows his eyes and questions. There's a sharp, bitter tang in the air, like ozone, and as much as Noshiko loves her daughter, the loss of her powers still stings.

"Yes. Foxes build families, not packs, and even nogitsune do the same."

She sounds - well, _senses_ uncertain. Stiles thinks that the two opposite are actually just talking out their asses, but he'll sit through the bull if it gives him something useful to work with.

Stiles allows her lack of surety and picks up the box, lightly tosses it up once in his hand, then catches it.

"How powerless is he?" Stiles inquires - isn't sure which would know better about this subject, because neither have ever experienced anything quite like _this_ before, in their long careers as members of the supernatural world.

"He can't do anything to you." Deaton says. "It's unlikely that he will be able to move... I doubt the fox could harm anybody in it's condition."

Stiles nods, uncaps the box, leaves in the pencil (because, okay, this thing hurt his friends, killed _Allison - made him be the reason she's gone,_ so Stiles is allowed petty vengeance) and _concentrates._

"Stiles." Deaton warns - but he ignores the vet.

 **_Pain._ ** _A burning desire to **cause,** to **feed,** and yet a wish to end the suffering - she's lost it all this time, he has and there's nothing that can be done for her. Flashes of her **host,** the way they fit (They forced the fit) and reflected back the same image; a wish for the sweet irony of the **perfect** host being the one to destroy him - _

Stiles breathes out a shaky breath, comes back to himself.

"You're right," Stiles says to Deaton. "He wants to die."

Deaton nods, Noshiko stares - impassive for the time being.

Stiles places the Nogitsune back down on the table, and Noshiko removes the pencil, recaps the lid and latches it, but leaves the box where Stiles put it.

"What happened during your visit to the Nemeton's roots?" Noshiko asks, and despite the unexpected nature of the question Stiles feels prepared enough to answer, mainly because it creeped him the fuck out enough to tell people like the adults opposite the actual truth about what happened, for once.

"It dragged us down in this weird cocoon of roots and downloaded some shit into our brains." He says drily. Thinking about it, Stiles clarifies "Malia and me."

"Oh and it talked to me, which was very much incredibly disturbing, thank you very much." Stiles added. "Never again will I visit that clearing, just so you know."

Deaton _hums,_ the fuck, and says "I doubt you'll have much choice in the matter."

Stiles scowls, because of course he won't but he'd rather think that he does (because control may be overrated but that's not to say he doesn't _like_ it -)

There's a hum of thunder in his ears and Stiles flicks his eyes up to Noshiko. "What are you thinking?" He asks, doesn't read, because she's nine-hundred years old and the empathy doesn't tell him everything when he doesn't want it to.

"I think you should keep a hold of the box." She says - Stiles jerks, blinks - stares.

"What no - why? ... _what."_

Stiles stares some more, because that idea seems _absurd,_ why the hell would anyone think that was a good plan.

"The nogitsune may reveal more if I weren't here." She extrapolates, that thunder-static louder in his hears. Noshiko's nervous, he realises - Stiles stares some more, because whatever's happening, this ancient fox lady is actually _worried_ about, for fucks sake, and Stiles is so not ready for this shit it's unreal.

"Fine." Stiles allows - abrupt. "Sure, I'll take it. Where in hell I'll keep it I've no clue, but I'll take it."

Deaton inclines his head. "Then that's all I'm here for. There is no link that's worrying, at least. If you wish to talk, I'll be at my clinic."

And with that the doc's out, down the hall and through the door. Stiles can hear the engine start, feels the sweet tang of relief (like oranges, he thinks) at the back of his throat.

Stiles turns his head to Noshiko. There's tea on the table he hadn't noticed before, _go_ all set out and ready to play.

"White or black?" She asks, and Stiles says "White" on reflex.

Noshiko nods and turns the board around. Stiles isn't sure about the real rules of this game, but is certain he'll learn them quick enough.

 _(It wasn't really go that they'd been playing. Not in the ways that count.)_

 _"I'll go first then,"_ She responds, makes her move.

 _"Okay."_ Stiles replies. He senses surprise, but doesn't know why - and makes his own move in return.

 _"Good."_ Noshiko nods. " _Do you know the rules?"_

 _"Not exactly,"_ Stiles replies. " _The nogitsune wasn't one for rules - you know that."_

There's a quirk of her lips in response - a light breeze that ruffles his thought and Stiles thinks _amusement._

 _" **No."**_ Noshiko agrees. _" **He was not."**_

Stiles nods. She makes her move and says - "You realise none of that was in English, Stiles?"

Stiles blinks, makes his own move. "No." He falters. "I didn't."

* * *

Chapter 3: Talk, Tea, and Other Things That Don't Begin With The Letter 'T'.

Summary:

A game of Go.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Noshiko pours tea into his cup, and Stiles takes it.

"So if it wasn't English then what was it?" He asks, sips the tea even though the taste isn't exactly pleasant. He's used to it by now; a few tries recently and memory echoes of years of similar beverages making it easier.

"Japanese." Noshiko says. "The first was a relatively modern form - a couple hundred years old - and the other was one of the first forms of the language after it truly became known by that name."

"Oh." Stiles says - not faintly, but bluntly; he's a little surprised, sure, but mostly he's just - he _knew,_ Stiles thinks; he knew what they were even if it all just sounded like English to him.

Noshiko takes a sip of her drink, places down her cup.

The board is the largest one Go is played on, so far as Stiles knows. Nineteen by nineteen - this is not to be a quick game.

"As is the rules of _Go,_ black moves first." She says. Stiles nods, and Noshiko makes her move. Stiles takes his piece and places it down, frowning in consideration.

The board had been smaller on the Nemeton, in the mindspace. The Nogitsune probably just wanted a quicker game.

Noshiko places down another piece, takes a sip of her tea then says: "You can read the emotions and gather the thoughts of others through that, yes?"

Stiles pauses in his movement - looks up to Noshiko, white stone in hand. "Ehrm. Yes?"

Noshiko glances over to the Nogitsune.

"What did you read of him?"

"Like I said." Stiles says. "They're tired. She's - He wants the irony of me being the one to... off them."

Noshiko frowns. Stiles places his piece, and Noshiko places hers; it looks to be that she's half going for making prisoners of half his stones. Stiles deliberately places his next one in a way that stalls her effort, and she nods to him.

"Good." She says. "Paying attention is key to winning this game."

Noshiko places her piece, and seems to ponder something as Stiles places his.

"How many memories of the Nogitsune's did you receive?"

"All of them, pretty much." Stiles says. "Not clearly - they're in the state He had them in, meaning over a thousand years a bunch of it's deteriorated, but at least, say, nine-hundred or so years are viable and out of _that_ four-hundred or so are clear, while only a hundred and... say - thirty eight are detailed."

"Knowledge seems to have stuck, however." She says. "Regarding the language capabilities you just demonstrated."

Stiles frowned, nodded, took a sip of the tea. "I guess." He said. "There's also some memories belonging to Their various hosts and Summoners over the years. The Summoners that they possessed, at any rate. I guess I could've just stopped at various hosts but - whatever."

Stiles deliberately avoided thinking of Rhys, because it would be inevitable that weird shit regarding the old fox lady across from him would show up, which - no thank you.

She'd looked scarily like Kira in her youth, Stiles allowed himself to know. Identical, in a way that seemed more than natural.

There's a sharp wind that cuts his mental thought process and drags his attention back to the woman across. She's - worried, he knows - worried that _he knows._

"I can block out what I don't wanna know." Stiles adds. "But - some stuff slips through."

"I don't suppose you know of the resemblance between my younger self and Kira?"

"Well, if I hadn't I would now." Stiles pointed out, "But yeah. No offence, but it's actually kind of scary how identical you were."

Noshiko grimaced. That was something he'd never had expected from her - it honestly nearly gave him whiplash. Her emotions managed to nearly give him a headache, though, so he looked away and drank some more tea.

"Your turn, Stiles."

Stiles turns to the board and places another stone, avoiding capture for the second time.

"You understand that there are likely other leftover powers than just the ability to take pain in as a food source and the memories, correct?"

"You're forgetting the empathy and enhanced strength, there," Stiles says drily, but nods after. "I can't imagine They lasted one-thousand years without a lot of power."

"That is where having an heir comes in." Noshiko says, placing her stone. Stiles places his, and shrugs. "I still don't get that." He admits. "So, is it kind of like with you and Kira?"

There's a sharp bite to the wind now, and Stiles winces. "Sorry, sorry."

"You're partly correct." Noshiko says, ignoring the apology. "Kira is... something special. I suppose the easiest way to name it that you would understand would be a doppelganger."

Stiles pauses. "Oh." He says - surprised. "Wait, no, that makes sense, what with the practically cloned nature of your appearances."

"She is also my daughter. And Kitsune lose their power to their children, and yet she is a doppelganger - I fear that doesn't bode well for her future." The ex-kitsune admits, frowning. "But that is beside the point, and irrelevant. The Nogitsune has... chosen you, for better or worse, as his heir. That is slightly different than his child. And you are certainly not his doppelganger."

"What am I to Them, then?"

"A reflection." She says. "He said it more than once, I assume? He is, for all intents and purposes, your shadow. Not that of the Jungian kind - that is all yours - but a creature that is indeed, a dark and twisted being, that has been given the purpose in all it's years to mould itself after a particular person... to change that mould and convince the person that what they are is not what they thought they were."

"Apparently I was the 'perfect host'." Stiles said. "But only because They made it fit."

Noshiko inclines her head. "You may think that means He made you fit to Him, but rather - in the end - He made Himself fit to you."

Stiles tried to register this as Noshiko places her stone. He drinks some more tea to stall, and Noshiko lets him.

After placing his stone, Stiles frowns for a moment. "So what your saying is... the Nogitsune spent one-thousand years on this earth just to... mess with _me?"_

"No." Noshiko says. "And yes."

"Well that clears things up, thanks a bunch." Stiles mutters sarcastically.

"It is a complicated situation." Noshiko says. "However my husband will be home soon. Take it with you." She gestures to the box. "And we shall continue this game at a later date."

Stiles pauses, looks at her askance. "Alright." He says, dubious. "If you're sure."

Noshiko affirms her sure-ness, and Stiles takes the box. And the pencil.

"Assuming you won't want this any longer?" He taps the pencil, and she inclines her head. "If you wish."

Stiles takes the pencil.

"Bye, then." Stiles says awkwardly. He turns, goes to exit the house.

At the door, he hears Noshiko say _"A shadow only truly exists where there is light, Stiles. Remember that."_ and then she's off, somewhere, and Stiles exits the house.

Alright then. Stiles tightens his grip on the box, and pockets the pencil.

Time to report back, he figures, gets into the jeep before Kira can turn up and ask too many questions he can't answer truthfully, and drives home.

* * *

 **Notes:**

 **This was a pretty shitty multi-chaptered fic, imo, but here it was. a 'three-shot', just for Sunday (the important bits regardless) and, well, yeah.**


	11. The Heart And The Rose

**_Summary:_ **

**A Briar is defined as any of a number of prickly scrambling shrubs, especially a wild rose. A heart is an organ, it keeps the blood pumping around the body and ultimately keeps you alive. Alternatively, heart has been used in many idioms. Lydia finds 'to get to the heart of' to be quite fitting right now - Lydia will find out who this Mandy Briarheart is; she will get to the heart of this mystery.**

* * *

A briar is defined as any of a number of prickly scrambling shrubs, especially a wild rose. A heart is an organ, it keeps the blood pumping around the body and ultimately keeps you alive. Alternatively, the word 'heart' has been used in many idioms. Lydia finds 'to get to the heart of' to be quite fitting right now - Lydia will find out who this Mandy Briarheart is; she will get to the heart of this mystery.

Lydia gets up on Monday morning wholly determined to have at least spoken to the junior once by the end of the day. Lydia gets up, washes, gets dressed and does her makeup. She has breakfast at the table and is out the door perfectly on-time to be slightly early for school.

Once she arrives, Lydia scours the outside of the school for this Mandy girl - glares at the base of the tree she usually sits at, keeps roaming her eyes over the parking lot, but she doesn't see her. Slightly disappointed Lydia waits for the others - Scott and Kira arrive quick enough, but Malia and Stiles arrive a little too close to the start of homeroom for Lydia's liking.

They apologize, Lydia nods in acceptance and doesn't wait - just starts walking. Perhaps she will catch Mandy on her way to homeroom; Lydia isn't adverse to missing the pointless session once if it means she gets what she wants out of today.

Lydia doesn't see her, of course. This trend continues through Econ and AP Biology, and then it's break and Lydia makes a beeline for the tree she'd been told Mandy hangs out under. Lydia finds nobody there but doesn't let this deter her - she waits on one of the nearby tables, pretending to read a book, but the girl doesn't show up. It's about three-quarters of the way through break and Lydia could do with a drink, so she gets up to go to the vending machine. She keeps her eye out the whole time for Mandy but doesn't see her.

Then she has Calculus, and then it's lunch, and Lydia makes a beeline for the library. Lydia spots Mandy - her hair isn't brown, it's more of a plum colour now, but her face is as described and so Lydia approaches her.

"Mandy Briarheart, correct?" Lydia starts off. The other girl turns to her, slowly, and simply stares.

"You're _her_ ," Mandy says. Lydia frowns at the other girl. "I'm Lydia Martin," Lydia introduces herself, slowly. "I wanted to ask you a few questions if that was-"

Lydia doesn't get to finish her sentence.

"I - I have to go," Mandy says, " _Now."_ Mandy throws a hand out in Lydia's direction which... makes her stumble a little. Lydia shakes her head to clear it and frowns at the other girl, confused; she wasn't exactly sure if that was supposed to do anything or not, but either way, it didn't. Lydia steps forward, about to start talking again - but Mandy has other plans. "Shit," Tumbles out of the other girl's mouth, before she blindly reaches into her bag and retrieves some perfume.

Or, at least Lydia _thinks_ it's perfume. It is in a perfume bottle, though that could just be a disguise. Well, whatever it is is a white-ish mist and it hits her in the face and _god,_ it _hurts,_ and Lydia really does have to stop in her tracks this time.

Once she's recovered, the other girl is gone.

"...Bitch." Lydia mutters, wiping at her eyes. This might be harder than expected.

* * *

Lydia has to eat at some point, so she goes to the cafeteria. Lydia grabs some food and spots Mandy, but keeps her distance - although she does sit on the side of the table that lets her keep an eye on the girl.

"Who are you staring at?" Stiles asks between bites of his - dubiously in-date 'mystery meat'.

"How can you even eat that?" Lydia asks, and Stiles - shrugs. Lydia has a feeling he's not really eating it, considering, but she won't say anything about that. Stiles and Malia and all of them (really) have had to deal with a lot, lately, she doesn't want to bring up what's been going on while they're trying to eat.

"Not an answer..." Stiles leads, ignores that that wasn't an answer to her own question either.

Lydia sighs, glares in Mandy's direction. "I approached her," She nodded towards the girl, "And she attacked me."

Scott immediately zeroes in on her. "Are you alright?" He asks, frowns and looks over Lydia for any sign of damage. The others do the same - Malia, Stiles, Kira - and Lydia nods. "I'm fine." She said, truthfully, "She sprayed something from a perfume bottle into my face, but I don't know what it was. I am okay, though."

Scott nodded and turned his attention towards Mandy. "I don't want you to get involved," Lydia demands. "You hear me?"

Scott nods, dubious and slow, and Lydia thinks Mandy's gonna get a kind-hearted talking to in the near future. Lydia can't exactly say she's sorry, so Lydia doesn't say anything at all.

* * *

"Do you want our help?" Malia and Stiles corner her after History, and Lydia - pauses. It could be useful, she reflects. Lydia doesn't really want anyone else to interfere, but, well, the both of them have something she doesn't: a way to tell why Mandy attacked her and why she ran away when Lydia approached.

"Alright," Lydia allows. "See if you can get what she's thinking and feeling when I approach her, okay? If she attacks feel free to interfere."

Stiles and Malia nod, serious. Lydia decides missing the next lesson isn't the highest sacrifice she's ever made in the name of supernatural shenanigans, not by a long shot, so she leads the way.

* * *

Lydia corners Mandy after the last lesson of the day. She takes her by surprise and manages to get her down the next corridor, which nobody's in right now, as the school day has ended. Still, Lydia glances around to make sure, and this is when Mandy tries to make her escape.

"Oh no you don't-" Lydia grabs Mandy and spins her around, shoves her so she stumbles backward. "What the hell was that about earlier?" Lydia demands. "You _attacked me._ For no reason. I repeat; What. The. Hell."

"I'm sorry," Mandy says. "I can't talk to you right now. Please stop trying to contact me."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "A reason, if you may?" Lydia requests, impatient.

"I can't talk to you," Mandy says, slowly, as if she was talking to a particularly dense child. Lydia reserves the right to feel highly offended.

"Oh yes, you can," Lydia says, glares at the other girl. "You _attacked me._ The least you can do is answer a few questions."

"Look," Mandy says, drops the monotone and flat act. "I _just_ got out of Eichen, alright? If they find out I'm doing this shit again, they'll throw me back in there."

Lydia feels slightly sympathetic, but not enough to stop questioning her.

"And two of my friends are ex Eichen residents. You can bond while I interrogate you." Lydia tells her, impatient still, and Mandy huffs. "Malia and Stiles, right?" Mandy asks rhetorically. "I'm still not answering anything you have to ask me."

"Too bad," Lydia says. "We're not leaving here until you do."

Mandy glowers at Lydia and reaches out all of a sudden to shove her out of the way. Taken by surprise, Lydia stumbles, and this is enough to let Mandy past.

Unfortunately for her, Mandy bangs into some invisible wall when she hits the end of the corridor. Mandy snarls in frustration, slams her fist against said wall and slides down to a seated position.

"Mountain ash." She says, resigned and tone full of derision, and Lydia nods. "You will talk," Lydia says as if it were fact. "Or you won't leave this corridor ever. Because you aren't leaving until you do."

* * *

Mandy stubbornly remains silent for at least another hour. Lydia's more than a little frustrated. By this time, Stiles and Malia have made themselves known - Stiles is standing next to Lydia (or more accurately leaning against the lockers and massaging his forehead out of frustration) and Malia is mimicking Mandy by leaning against the barrier made by the mountain ash.

Mandy lifts her head and smirks lazily up at them. "Bored yet?" She asks, and Lydia feels the urge to swear at her, but doesn't.

"Just talk already," Stiles demands half-heartedly, voice tired and everything about him screaming worn-out frustration.

"What're you gonna do?" Mandy mocks. "Make me?"

" _Yes,"_ Stiles practically snarls out, glares and _glares_ at her, then falters and steps back ."If you don't say anything." Stiles continues, tone heavy but more his own, "We're gonna have to."

Mandy grins at him, lax and uncaring. "Alright then." She says. "I'll pretend you aren't so terrified of yourself that if you do even the slightest thing that could be considered wrong your brain goes into a spiral of self-loathing."

Stiles glowers at her and says nothing. Lydia rubs at her own forehead. She's got a headache now. Just great.

"I'm not gonna tell you anything, Banshee," Mandy says. "I'm not gonna tell the fellow crazies anything either, so you all can stuff it and just let me go, thanks."

Lydia can see Malia's hand curl into a fist, but she says and does nothing else in response to that. Stiles' lips thin, as if he's pulling them against his teeth, and he turns and paces, taps an incessant rhythm onto his thigh.

"Hey, Stilinski," Mandy says, and continues without waiting for a response, "You ever gonna follow through on your threat or what? I'm bored. A mental fight could be fun."

"It wouldn't be a fight," Stiles says, cooly.

"Nah, you're right," Mandy says, confident - _arrogant,_ Lydia thinks. "I'd win before you even tried."

"Anyway," Mandy smirks. "It's a little - overwhelming, isn't it? getting inside someone's head. Granted, we have different skills and everything, but the end result is practically the same."

"Shut up," Stiles says, grinds his teeth together, and Lydia moves forwards, crouches in front of Mandy. "You've _had_ your fun," Lydia says, a final thing. "Now tell me."

"Fine," Mandy rolls her eyes. "In Eichen house, there's a girl called Meridith. Don't trust her. She truly is not what she seems. Also a psychopath? Not fun to have as your creepy uncle. Don't trust him either. He's got an ace up his sleeve, and you don't want him to use it."

"...They aren't answers." Lydia says."I've never even met a single Meridith, why would I need to go to Eichen house to meet her, and also - Peter? He's not up to anything right now, as far as we're aware."

Mandy looks at her flatly. "It's just good advice, Banshee," She says, ominously. "Here's another bit - The kind of power you've got? Really needs controlling. Your screams are explosions, Lydia Martin. I'd make them bullets before they explode the heads of each and every one of your friends and family."

Lydia feels a chill down her spine and backs up. "You don't know what you're talking about." She says, and Stiles turns, glares at Mandy.

"And _you,"_ Mandy says, mockingly, _"Stilinski._ You're running out of time. The nogitsune wants something you definitely don't want, and the only way to break free from that is to do what it wants before it wants it. That body isn't your own, it was never meant to be."

"It is my own," Stiles says cooly. "Lydia's right, you have no idea about what you're talking about."

Mandy shrugs. "Maybe so regarding you." She allows. "But then... a spark, a nogitsune... separate they're dangerous. Connected - " She pauses, and a smile slowly spreads across her face.

"Void consumes. A spark ignites. There's a lot of power there, Stiles. Try not to throw the balance."

Mandy turns her head to Malia. "And try not to bring her down with you," She adds, almost as an afterthought. "Though the nemeton might have already made that impossible."

Mandy turns to look back at Stiles, expression serious. "It may not be a force of good, but it has your best interests at heart, Stiles." She says. "The nemeton has plans. The nogitsune has plans. If I were you, I'd go with the lesser evil."

* * *

Lydia's annoyed.

"We learnt nothing," She says, angry. "She told us nothing except vaguery, and they weren't even riddles."

"Personally I'm glad about that," Stiles offers, "Though concrete info would have been nice."

Malia grimaces. "I don't like any of what she said."

"And I don't think we've seen the last of her," Stiles added, then frowned. "I'd like us to have, but there's this horrible feeling we've done something irreversible."

Lydia didn't want to voice her agreement - it might not be true, what he says, but Lydia's a banshee.

And her throat is starting to itch.

* * *

 **Sorry it's been so long since I updated fics over here on FFN dot net :| I've been a little busy, and I'm really, really bad at remembering to cross post. I hope you all enjoy the spammed chapters regardless :)**


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